


Every Body a Cage

by peachnewt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Case Fic, DCBB, DCBB2014, Demon Blood Addiction, Gen, Grace Sharing, M/M, Possessed Dean, Profound Bond, Season/Series 05, Vessel Consent Issues, Vessel Dean, Vore, Wing Kink, flame-throwers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:17:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2579609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachnewt/pseuds/peachnewt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate Season Five Fic</p><p>Team Free Will is on the run from angels, demons, and fellow hunters.  After Famine dragged Sam off the wagon, and the second death of Bobby Singer’s wife, Dean wants to drown his sorrows.  In a dream he’s offered a drink to make him feel whole again.  He should have asked what it was. </p><p>Better yet, who it was...<br/>Or...</p><p>That one fic where Dean ends up with Castiel stuck in his ribcage.  </p><p>EDIT: 7-24-2015 - Bobby Epilogue added!<br/>----------<br/>Check out the awesome art by Prinzik!: http://prinzik.livejournal.com/626.html</p><p>DCBB 2014 masterpost:  http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/194394.html</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love to my readers on dA that encouraged me with my first Big Bang. 
> 
> Huge thumbs up to my beta Garden-Goddess. Any mistakes are my own error, and if you see any please tell me so I can fix it.
> 
> And of course a standing ovation to prinzik, my artist for the Big Bang. Her work is fantastic and you can check it out here: http://prinzik.livejournal.com/626.html
> 
> If you like my work please check out my tumblr: peachnewt.tumblr.com
> 
> I do not own Supernatural and make no profit from this work.

  


Then:

The bottle of whiskey weighed heavy in Dean’s fingers as he leaned against the Impala, staring up into the overcast night.

“Please. I can’t--” Dean sucked in a breath. Famine’s words had rung all too true and his insides felt all too cold. Last time he prayed like this he was desperate to get Sam away from Lilith, begging someone to drag him out of the hotel. This was lower than begging, it was a plea for mercy. “I need some help… Please?”

Silence. As all prayers are answered. Dean’s throat choked up. Please…

Under the song of crickets, he heard the wet, heavy sound of a man retching. Wary, Dean followed it, grasping the neck of the bottle like a club. He found Castiel leaning against a burnt out Chevy, heaving onto the dry dust. Or at least trying.

Hamburgers in the “low hundreds” Cas had said. And then raw ground beef on top of that. It all had to come out somewhere, even though it had been hours since they’d been eaten. Cas looked up, eyes wide and embarrassed, hand on his stomach as another ache of nausea rocked him. He was lucky the mess hadn’t gotten on his tie.

“I don’t know how to do this,” said Castiel, his voice an acidic rasp.

Dean huffed. Castiel, Angel of the Lord, Soldier of God, dragged Dean’s ass out of hell, and didn’t know how to vomit.

“Lean over more and bend your knees.” Whiskey forgotten, Dean put his hand on the angel’s back, pushing him down until his torso was parallel to the ground and his hands rested on his knees. He slung the backwards blue tie over one shoulder. Under his hand Dean could feel Castiel’s ribs tighten and heave, a sick, human thing rattling around inside the borrowed body.

For a moment, Cas got a hold of himself, breathing between heaves. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean couldn’t help Sam through the shakes, but he could teach an angel to puke.

 

Now:

“Want another, hombre?”

Dean picked his head up off the sticky counter, rubbing his eyes. Empty bottles and glasses, like a firing squad that used all its bullets and were amazed their target still stood, circled him. Dean did better than stand; he was sober as a piece of dry kindling. And he couldn’t feel a thing.

He looked around and his jaw dropped. Every flat surface was covered with empty bottles and glasses. Beer, wine, vodka, tequila, a couple of martini glasses with pink umbrellas disintegrating at the bottoms, even a bottle of Everclear. He had drunk them all, though he could not remember how. The bar, wood paneled and lit with green glass shaded bulbs, was empty of people. All the scratches and dings of hundreds of bottles and bar fights, but not a soul to be seen. The jukebox in the corner crooned Old No 7 on repeat.

Dean picked up one of the empty bottles and stared at the label. The logo of a snow-capped mountain was clear, but the letters making up the name shifted from one word to the next before he could read it. Yep. He was dreaming.

He turned to the bartender.

And blinked.

The man behind the counter wore a sombrero, serape, and had a handlebar mustache that could drive a lawn mower. Definitely dreaming.

“The hell?” Dean looked around again. “This is why I shouldn’t have nachos before bed.”

“Si, senior.” The Mexican clothed bartender smiled and polished away at a shot glass.

“Right.” Dean took up one of the empty bottles, eying the opening for another drop. It was dry, like him. Hollow, dead, wanting something to fill him up even if it hurt. If he hit his chest with a stick it would probably ring like a bell stuffed with insect carcasses.

Wow, that was a shitty image. Dreams were a bad place to get introspective.

“Ya know,” said the bartender. “Way you’re drinking, looks like you want to drown yourself.”

Dean chuckled without humor and put the bottle down in the row with the others. Hell, everyone around him was drowning and dying. Ellen. Jo. Seeing Bobby tread water after having to kill his wife again just brought it all back. Why didn’t he drown too? “I’m too good a swimmer.”

“Well, I got something that can take care of that real good.”

Dean shook his head. “Not into drugs, man. Even when dreaming.”

“Not that.” The bartender brought out a crystal cut bottle filled with gold liquid. “I’m talking liquor of the gods.”

Dean considered the drink sloshing inside.

“Unless it’s too strong for you,” goaded the bartender.

Dean slammed an empty shot glass on the counter, making the beer bottles rattle. “Bring it on.”

The liquor smelled like honey and cloves. Mead probably. The first shot went down like sweet water, warming like an engine. The aftertaste bit at his throat like the edge of a toothpick.

The second shot, a candle flicker.

The third through seventh were a blur that warmed, but still left him hollow. Dean coughed clearing his throat around a scratchy feeling in his chest, like a sharp end of an icicle tapping at his lungs.

The drink was good, but it went fast. Too fast. It all goes by in a blur when you drink alone. Dean glanced around the bar again. Except for the bartender and the army of bottles, he was most definitely alone. He’d rather be drinking with Cas than alone.

Dean imagined Cas downing a beer, silent and contemplative because he didn’t talk to take up space. Quiet company, good company. How much did it take to get an angel drunk? Well, he’d never know now would he? Last he saw Cas it had been right after Sam recovered from Famine. And then poof, gone. He’d called Castiel, trying to get a bead on where the angel was and an update on the God hunt. Nothing. Not even a text.

Dean held up the empty glass, feeling closer to tired then he had in a while. Which was weird. How could one get tired in a dream? “That all you got?”

The bartender shrugged. “You really want something stronger?”

“I’m dreaming. I could drink paint thinner and not feel a thing.”

“We’ll see.” The bartender pulled a large crystal stein out from under the counter. Condensation collected around the vessel’s lip, radiating coolness longed for on sweltering days. But inside the crystal clear liquid was a ball of light so bright it made Dean’s eyes ache. He reached for it to get a closer look. The barkeep held it up out of his reach, which was hard to do since he was quite a bit shorter than Dean.

“Consider this a special kind of tequila; only good if you eat the worm at the bottom. This version is a little watered down, just to keep you on the safe side. But it’ll still throw you for a loop around the moon.” The bartender grinned, a gold tooth gleaming in the bluish light. “You really want this in you?”

The light in the stein flickered, shuddering. Almost like a star, thought Dean. The liquid around the light looked… deeper, more wet, like the cup held the whole of the ocean. Bigger on the inside and teeming with life, feeling more real than it should. If any drink could drown his sorrows this was it.

“I want it,” said Dean.

“That a yes?”

“That’s a _hell yes_.” Dean grabbed the cup and took a deep pull.

The liquid seemed weightless, sweet and light where seawater was salty and heavy, and with a tang that tasted of burnt wood. But what he really wanted was the light at the bottom. Dean swallowed, throat going tight at the amount of liquid passing through. The more he tilted the stein the more the light flickered, until he had his head tilted all the way back and it slipped past his lips. A light touch upon his tongue, almost burning, and he swallowed again.

Then it hit him, blasting the air out of his chest.

It was lightening, the bolt pushing against the sides of his throat, singeing his heart until it rested right below his lungs. The resulting heat inside Dean made him drop the stein, shattering like ice as it hit the counter.

Dean clawed at the pressure against his sternum. The hollowness in his chest filled in with a strange, tingling warmth, and kept on filling, running over and stretching until his ribs couldn’t keep up. A pain sharp as a nail went through his head while his heart pounded, tingly and heavy.

Dammit, you weren’t supposed to feel pain in dreams. Or feel… good. He hung halfway between laughing in bliss and crying in confusion, so he did both. His voice echoed with something out of range of his hearing, but he could feel it pinch at his ears.

The bottles and glasses cracked and shattered, like in the wake of an explosion. Diamond shards and drops of beer hung in the air as Dean wrapped his arms around his middle, trying to keep himself together. The heat hurt, but he didn’t want it out of him now that the hole in his chest had been filled. The jukebox flared and fried to silence while singing about angels dragging people to the fiery deep.

Over the roaring in his ears, or maybe _in_ the roaring in his ears, Dean could hear someone calling his name, the sound gravely, gruff, desperate.

The shadow of a sombrero loomed over him. “Drowning yet, amigo?”

Dean kept one hand across his body while the other went for the knife in his boot. Poisoned, that had to be it. He should have know better than to not ask what was in the drink. Dumb-ass move, dreaming or no. He threw his knife at the bartender, only for the sombrero to be pinned to the wall behind the bar, without the man in it.

Dean collapsed to the floor, the glass biting into his jeans. Wake up. He had to wake up.

It was between dreaming and the black second before waking, that he thought the bartender’s moustache seemed familiar.

***

Dean jerked awake as a pillow bounced off his shoulder.

“Wake up!”

Dean barely opened his eyes before his head was brought back down to the scratchy sheets. Damn the light, shaking his brain cells like a rattle. And the heartburn.

“Gah.” He grimaced at the dead taste in his mouth. “Who ran me over with the mariachi-mobile?”

“Probably the tequila,” said Sam, throwing his duffel together.

Dean paused, mention of tequila piquing a fuzzy memory. Then he remembered the shots he downed after the Taco Bell pit stop, hoping the drink would send him right to sleep. It hadn’t. He had laid in bed, listening to Sam breathe, waiting for his little brother’s exhale to crack into a whimper. Famine’s aftermath and Sam going through the shakes again as the blood burned out of his system. Only it never happened and Dean had slipped into a fitful sleep.

Sam held out a bottle of water and two Tylenol. “C’mon, Bobby’s got another lead.”

Dean nodded, grabbed the water, and went through the motions.

***

Five days later found them on the road to a small town far south of Omaha, Nebraska. Sam, graced with the ability to read in the car and not get sick, reviewed the newspaper clippings Bobby had emailed them. Two bodies washed up along the creek, their chests ripped open and hearts missing.

“We still thinking werewolves?” asked Dean over the sound of air puffing through the crack in the window.

“I don’t think so. Their bodies weren’t found after a full moon. Whatever we’re hunting doesn’t follow the lunar cycle.”

“With our luck it’s probably some sort of super wolf that can Cujo out any time of the month.” Dean cleared his throat, trying to dislodge a lump in his chest. With all the tickling around his lungs he might be coming down with a cold. It had been going on for a few days now.

“Not funny, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean rolled the window back up and fiddled with the radio as the station turned to static. “Just hate going in blind.”

Sam put the folder away, fingering the soft crease likely to fall apart. “Heard anything from Cas?”

“Not a peep.” Dean shook his head. He wanted to believe no news was good news, but with Castiel it was better assumed where that angel went, trouble followed. He’d called Cas twice that morning, and three texts. Nothing. He coughed again, wincing at the slight shudder in his chest. “Either he’s back on the God hunt, or he’s drinking all the Pepto-Bismol in the tri-state area.”

“Next gas stop, we get you some cough syrup and vitamin C.” Sam frowned as Dean failed to cover his mouth with another cough. “Speaking of God, I heard there was a girl in Chile that cut a tomato in half and it formed a perfect rosary.”

Dean’s eyebrow lifted in disbelief. “You think God is in a tomato?”

“I’m just saying He might be around miracles. And we can research leads for Cas if need be.”

Dean had to admit, the God solution was looking to be their best bet in stopping the apocalypse. They avoided angels and took out Lucifer’s henchmen, but they couldn’t run forever. He just wished he had more faith in Castiel’s search.

“I can’t really picture us as God hunters.”

“Well, maybe not you. You thought He was on a tortilla.”

“Better a tortilla than some plant that can’t decide if it’s a fruit or vegetable.” Dean could just imagine Cas stomping through some _abuela’s_ garden, looking for God amongst the peppers.

\---

They parked on the outskirts of town, Dean taking care to avoid the street corner full of people holding signs proclaiming “The End is Near!” Regular people might ignore them, but angels still listened to the prayers of crazy people. They didn’t need another religious nut calling down Zachariah’s feathered dicks.

A flash of badges at the morgue and FBI Agents Scott and Evans got access to the bodies. The assistant M.E. was the only one available to talk to, and he wasn’t very talkative; jittery and twitching his nose like a rabbit.

“Everything has already been catalogued and put in the fridge,” said the assistant. “Please put everything back once you’re done.”

They entered the tiled examination room and the brothers nearly balked at the smell; fermented mildew that would knock the breath out of an elephant. Mud had been packed into the chest cavities and the M.E. dumped it in a pair of tubs to be sifted. He nodded in sympathy and handed them masks before he left.

“I’ll just leave you to it.”

“Thanks,” said Sam through the tightly tied mask. He already had his hands on the surgical gowns and gloves. Dean had a feeling this was going to be one of those messy morgue visits.

EMF was negative and there was no sulfur on the bodies. Sam took the brunette on the left, Dean the blonde on the right. From what he could tell of her bloodless face, she had been pretty, blonde and slim. Dean pulled the sheet down and folded it around the gaping hole in the corpse’s chest, examining the edges of the wound the size of a fist. Like someone had reached in a burning hand to tear out her heart. Easy as coring an apple.

Dean’s stomach clenched, remembering Famine’s hand on him. He moved to the rest of the body, comparing his observation to the report notes.

“It’s too clean to be a werewolf attack,” said Sam with his corpse.

“Yeah. No bite marks, no scratches except post mortem. Probably from being washed down a creek.” Dean held up the young woman’s wrist, encircled in purple like the other girl. “But a lot of bruising.”

“Same here,” said Sam. “They were tied up.”

“The wound looks burned around the edge, like it was done with a hot knife,” said Dean. “And the ribs have scratches on them, like something cut through them to get to the heart.”

“So what needs still beating hearts?”

“Horned Kali worshiper from the Temple of Doom?”

Sam pursed his lips in the classic bitch-face and Dean smiled. Yep, he still got it.

\---

The victims had been college girls from North Dakota on a road trip, their car found abandoned ten miles West. No kinfolk nearby to talk to.

Sam and Dean hit a Sonic with actual servers in roller skates before the motel, changing into clothes more appropriate for creek crawling. Dean changed first while Sam ate his salad while bent over his laptop.

“Watch out Sammy, that might be a holy tomato.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

Dean collapsed in the chair next to him, mechanically chewing the burger he got for himself. Extra cheddar, double bacon, but it wasn’t as savory as he imagined it would be. It had taken a few days to get back into his joy of food, but burgers still took some work. He kept remembering Cas bent over, vomiting all that raw beef. Just the memory made his stomach pinch.

“Anything on your end?” asked Dean, dropping the burger.

“There were two other bodies found further up the creek,” said Sam.

“When?”

“Two years ago,” said Sam, turning the laptop to show Dean the article. “Three miles north, two girls. Their bodies were so mangled by the rocks and scavengers they couldn’t find all the parts. Police assumed it was an accident because there was alcohol in their blood.”

Dean marked the town on a map, following along the creek. “Their hearts also missing, I’m assuming.”

“Yeah. The furthest up the creek where drowning happened is Papillion and that was ten years ago.”

“Papillion? Like butterfly?”

Sam clicked a wikipedia tab showing the town crest of a monarch butterfly. “Yep.”

“Weird.”

“What’s weird is you knowing papillion is French for butterfly.”

“Shut up.” Dean marked Papillion on the map, staring at the dots. A blue dot marked where the car belonging to the latest victims had been found. Within Papillion borders. “You know the more I look at this the more I think it’s either a water spirit or a messed up human.”

“Why?”

“It looks like whoever is doing this is trying to use the creek to flush away the bodies to the Missouri River. Two years ago there was a drought, not much water to push a corpse. Ten years ago, even less. That would explain why they got washed up along the creek.”

Sam frowned, as if surprised at Dean’s logic. “Yeah, that would.”

“I think we need to go further up the creek.” He glanced at his watch and wrapped up the rest of the burger before tossing it into the trash. “We can drive to Papillion tonight. Pack up.”

Sam paused, glancing briefly at the trashcan before facing his brother. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not. You’re quieter. And that waitress at the drive-in was cute.”

Dean grinned. “I knew you were looking at her.”

“And you weren’t.” Sam shut his laptop, hands folded over it. “Last time you were like this it was… Famine.”

Dean kept his eyes on the table, swallowing down the renewed burn in his throat. He didn’t need those wounds reopened so soon.

Sam’s voice was low, muffled by self loathing. “When I was… when those demons came at me at the motel… it was me, but I wasn’t in control of myself, you know? With the blood, and I know you’re disappointed--”

“No.” Dean rubbed at his brow in frustration. “Dammit, this isn’t about you or the demon blood. It’s about me.”

“You?” Sam’s brow furrowed in incredulity. “Famine couldn’t do anything to you. I got the shakes, Cas craved hamburgers, but nothing caught you.”

“Yeah, that was the problem,” muttered Dean. Cas had more humanity in him than Dean, now that was saying something.

“What?” said Sam.

“Nothing.” And there it was again, that pressure in his chest that made his breath hitch. He didn’t rub at his sternum like he wanted to, but Sam had noticed.

“Cold acting up?”

“Just a flutter.” Flutter. Yeah, great description, like that wasn’t a trigger word for Dr. Sam.

“A flutter? In your _chest_?”

“It’s nothing.” Too late, Sam had opened his laptop back up.

“Dean, a heart flutter isn’t nothing! It’s all that grease and fat catching up to you. Has this been going on since Famine, or longer? Do you have any other symptoms?” Sam typed away.

“No.”

“Chest pains? Shortness of breath? Nausea? Dizziness? Neck aches?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Well there is one…”

“Yeah?”

“A pain I get in my ass when my own brother tries to WebMD me.”

“Very funny.”

“Besides it’s not my heart that hurts. It’s my whole…” Dean’s motioned his hand over his chest. “My ribcage. And it doesn’t hurt, it just feels weird. Like I swallowed a bunch of fuzz and it won‘t go away.”

“You’re trying to tell me this isn’t serious? It could be pneumonia.”

“Sam, if it becomes an issue, I’ll tell you. Okay?”

Sam nodded begrudgingly. “Fine.”

“While on the subject, how are you doing?” said Dean. If Sam still had guilt running through him about the blood, then he must have something to say.

Sam took a patient breath, composing his concern. “Fine.”

Dean nodded, accepting the lie.

\---

A dead possum and a dry-rotted volleyball net later, Dean started to think walking along the creek was a shitty idea. The creek ran past a city park and had more trash than water. His socks squished in his boots. It was going to take more than one shower to get rid of the smell. Sam stopped in front of him, flashlight shining up the steep dike.

“Dean, you smell that?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Sam. Skunk? Sewage?”

“No, that mold smell.”

Dean stopped, lips pursed. The same moldy, mildew smell from the M.E.’s office. They climbed up the grassy incline, grabbing handfuls of long weeds to keep from slipping down. At the top was a park trail that led around a pond to a landscape service shed.

“I think we found the source of the smell,” said Dean, pointing the flashlight to the pond where lake-weed floated on it like a carpet. He gestured his hand towards the shed. “Let’s see if anyone’s home.”

“Be careful.”

“I’m not interested in a cardio-ectemy Temple of Doom style, Sam.”

Sam followed behind, holding the flashlight as Dean picked the lock open. Crowbar and knife in hand, they entered, finding sheers and saws amongst the landscaping tools. But none had blood on them, and neither were they sharp enough to dig through bone in one go. Sam took the left where the weed whackers and rakes hung, Dean wove through industrial bags of fertilizer, weed killer, and… cheetos?

“I think someone’s living here,” said Sam, opening a small cooler full of bottled water and beer.

“I think you’re right.”

Further to the back Dean encountered a meaty smell, like beef jerky that had been laying outside the package too long. His chest twisted at the slick reek, making him wince. Maybe Sam was right, he was coming down with something.

Further on he found a makeshift kitchen consisting of a hot plate and a surprisingly clean counter and cutting board. Next to an open jar of pimentos lay a human heart, its chambers stuffed with sauerkraut and carrots.

“Ech. Well, at least it’s not fava beans.” Dean turned around. “Sam I--Sam!”

A tall man lurked behind Sam, seeming to be made of skin, bones, and staples keeping his body together. A lawn care uniform two sizes too big draped over him, and he held a rusted pitchfork. Sam spun around from the dirty bedding on the ground, swinging the crowbar. He struck the man’s torso and it dinged, metal hitting metal. That earned him a punch from a metal hand that laid him flat on the ground.

Dean attacked from behind, one hand around the guy’s shoulders while the other thrust the dagger towards the throat. The blade squealed like bad brakes, the edge sparking. It cut the skin, but not as deep as Dean had intended, as if the monster’s hide was armor. It gurgled, laughing, breath reeking of pond water and rust.

The metal monster jerked the handle end of the pitchfork behind him, hitting Dean on the temple. Dean staggered back, knocking the vegetable stuffed heart to the ground. He wasn’t seeing stars, he was seeing the friggin’ big bang behind his eyes. He coughed hard, the twisting in his chest getting warmer.

Sam grunted as the metal skinned monster lifted his limp body off the ground by his neck. The monster’s left hand let go of the pitchfork and sharpened from slender fingers to needle sharp points of metal and bone, aimed for Sam’s heart.

Dean pushed through the disorienting pain and drew his gun from his waistband.

“Hey, Edward Scissorstein!”

Bang!

The monster turned, dropping Sam. Two more shots, double tap to the chest, but the bullets only pissed him off. It stomped on the edge of the pitchfork, grabbed the handle, and then stabbed it at Sam’s upper thigh. The tines ripping his jeans and buried deep into the ground, pinning Sam like a butterfly.

Dean didn’t get another shot out before a large bone and metal hand tore the gun from his grip and then pinned him against the makeshift kitchen counter. Dean’s body bowed backwards onto the cutting board, the monster pressed right against him as his grip went from Dean’s hand to his throat. He couldn’t push the hands off him, couldn’t move as the monster dipped its head, something black dripping from the neck wound.

It sniffed at Dean’s chest, then growled approvingly. The back of its cold hand smoothed the shirt over Dean’s heart. Oh, hell no.

Dean tried twisting his hips to get leverage, but he couldn‘t budge. He glanced at Sam. Failing to budge the pitchfork, Sam reached his longs limbs as far as he could to get to the fallen gun. Just a few inches more.

Then the fine needles pierced slowly through Dean’s shirt, skin, and muscle, cold and sickening. Dean cried out, voice harsh as the claws honed in on his heart hammering like a train engine. They slid towards the protective cage of his ribs and then past them.

The flutter, once a tiny thing, shook through Dean’s body, driving the breath out of him with a wave of heat and fury; his insides lit up like a giant coal. The monster froze, then jerked back, leaving five little glowing pits in Dean‘s chest. It screeched; nails across slate. A burning light crept up its metal fingers like frost, rusting the metal hand and turning the flesh to ash and dirty rags. It collapsed in a prickly heap.

Dean slid to the floor, lungs heaving as the twisting heat inside him died back down to a flicker. Sam stared, eyes wide.

“Okay,” said Dean, hand pressed over the open wounds in his chest. “This might be an issue.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by Prinzik. Check her out here: http://prinzik.tumblr.com/
> 
> If you like my work check out my tumblr: peachnewt.tumblr.com

They kept the rusted hand, wrapping it in a burlap sack to later be shoved into a curse box, just in case. They’d see what Bobby could make of it when he saw him next.

After hobbling to the car, and wrapping makeshift bandages around Sam’s thigh and Dean’s chest, they made it back to the motel just as the sky rolled into gray. While Sam shucked off his jeans and sat on the bed to get a better look at the damage caused by the pitchfork, Dean called Cas. Both of them hoped the angel would shed some light on what had happened in the storage shed by the lake.

If Castiel would pick up the damn phone.

“Super 8, room 109, off I-90 North of Omaha. Get here pronto or call me.” Dean clicked the phone shut with a weary grimace as the fuzzy warmth in his lungs twisted again. He swore whatever was wrong with him was getting worse. “Damn.”

“Have you checked his GPS?” asked Sam.

“Not yet, but I’m tempted to. For all we know he could be in Tibet. Doubt he’d get coverage there.”

Sam laid a towel on the bed and sat down, pulling up the left leg of his boxers.

“You are damn lucky,” said Dean with a huff after getting an eyeful of his brother’s inner thigh and leaning back. A purple band circled the top part of Sam’s leg. The pitchfork had pinned Sam well enough that it had taken both of them to pry the tool free. On either side of the bruise was a shallow cut where the tines had glanced over Sam’s skin. “A few inches higher, and you’d be in a world of hurt I wouldn’t touch.”

Sam took the antiseptic cream from Dean. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time some metallic monster throws a pitchfork at my leg.”

Once Sam’s leg was wrapped and a bag of ice put on his multiple bruises, it was Dean’s turn. He took off his shirt, moved the motel chair next to the bed, and then peeled back the gauze on his chest. In a star shaped pattern above Dean’s heart were five holes the size of dimes. The wounds had bled through the bandage, but not as bad as he thought it would. He had been sure the metal tipped claws had nicked at least one rib. The tattoo had been a quarter of an inch from being pierced through.

“So, I’m thinking that thing back there wasn’t a flaming Kaili worshiper,” said Sam, soaking a cloth with rubbing alcohol.

“Nope,” said Dean through gritted teeth and a clenched fist. Damn the alcohol stung. “Just your average gourmet-heart-eating monster. Whatever the hell it was. Probably realized I would give him some really bad indigestion.” Dean shuddered, remembering how the thing had sniffed at his chest and growled with a grin, like a kid that had just gotten a double fudge waffle cone. “The important thing is it’s dead.”

“Yeah, via some weird ass shenanigans. Are we going to talk about what happened back there?” asked Sam, tossing the cloth and reaching for tweezers and a cotton swab.

“I… The guy had me pinned, was digging in, and then something just… twisted inside me. Hot. And then the guy was ash.”

Sam squinted at the wounds, like he was judging whether or not they needed stitches, or perhaps trying to look through the holes into what was ailing his brother. “Those chest pains you’ve been having lately, do you think they’re connected?”

“Maybe, but like I said, they’re not painful, not like this was.”

“Well, what does it usually feel like? You said before it was like a flutter.” Sam opted against stitches and started in on the anti-bacterial cream. “A chill? Something cold, like a ghost passing through you?”

“Not cold. You know how you get butterflies in your stomach?”

“Yeah.”

“Well instead of butterflies it’s Mothra. Burning hot Mothra.”

“Your wound glowed for a second, right after those claws came out of you,” said Sam slowly, applying a layer of non-stick bandage over the wounds before applying more gauze and taping it down. “I think we’ve seen that kind of light before.”

“You’re thinking angel mojo, aren’t you?” Dean clenched his fist as the warmth in him twisted again, as if begging for attention. “I didn’t say yes to Michael. No way, no how.”

“I know, but-”

“We’ll find out when we’re both rested.”

“Fine,” said Sam. Wary and worn, he collapsed onto the motel bed.

Dean took a little longer. He swallowed down two Advil with a mouthful of holy water, pausing at a faint sense of déjà vu. Then he nicked his arm with a silver knife. Satisfied that neither had any effect he readied for a few hours sleep before true dawn. He slipped on a t-shirt and curled the covers around him, one hand on the knife under the pillow and the other on his chest instead of in a sprawl. He needed another layer between his heart and the elements tonight, even if it was caged in with something unknown.

\---

It was a familiar nightmare. Chains clanged in the dark. Dean ran. The scalpels were coming for him. Blood screamed for him.

Escape. Run. Keep them away from carving out his insides again and again.

What was the use? He was already dead inside.

The scalpels snapped at his wrists and the tender skin between his fingers. Then something grabbed his shoulder and pulled.

Dean found himself in a wooden chair on a dock by a lake, fully dressed, not a scratch on him. The same dock Cas met him at before he was introduced to Jimmy Novak. A breeze cooled his face, but the water still as a mirror, reflecting a grey sky. Where the clouds were thin, he saw thick glass pillars that curved like a dome around the lake.

“Cas?” Dean stood and looked around expecting a flutter of a trench coat. Nothing. “Cas, if you need to get me a message, there are better ways.”

Dean grabbed a rock and threw it at the lake surface, the ripples widening in arcs. At least this dream was better than the rack and the chains.

“Do I need to teach you how to text again?”

“Dean.” The low voice echoed, seeming to come from everywhere.

Dean spun around, dock still empty. “Cas, where are you?”

Playing hide and seek with an angel wasn’t fair. He turned and--

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean jumped back from being nose to nose with the angel, lucky to avoid the edge of the dock. “We went over this. Personal space! That means at least an arm’s length between you and the other person.”

Castiel tilted his head, lips pursed in frustration, an expression likely learned from Dean. “Our current situation makes that request… difficult.”

“What situation?” Dean threw his arms up. “You’re off hunting for God while Sam and I have been calling you for help a dozen times. Were you picking out souvenirs in Bangkok?”

Cas tilted his head, brows drown down. “Did you want one?”

Dean broke his own rule and stepped right into Cas’ personal space, making sure the angel could see the frustration, and possibly fear on his face. “Dude, there’s something in me and it’s freaking me out. It turned a heart eating metal monster we were chasing into dust.”

“It was an iron ghoul that had augmented itself with alchemical spells and unholy metals.”

“How did—?” Dean tapped his sternum. “Do you know what this is?”

Castiel sighed and closed his eyes as if pained, his breath becoming a breeze that whipped the air and made the lake churn. Half shadow, half solid, wings flared out behind him, arcing to the grey sky. They were bigger than the display Dean remembered from the converted barn, reaching out to the glass pillars in the sky, touching them.

Then, for the first time in the dream, Dean felt the thing in his chest move, like a churning motion. His grasped at his chest, the shock he felt slowly melting to unwanted horror.

“Cas?”

Castiel held up a crystal stein, dew on its rim. “You said yes.”

Dean held his hand out to the cup, the sense of déjà vu becoming stronger until the crazy dream of the bar came back at full force. He jerked back from the angel, shaking his head.

“Oh, hell no!”

\---

Dean jackknifed on the bed, startling Sam at his laptop. A sliver of morning sunlight came through the tacky blinds. Sam had already changed and fetched breakfast.

“Dean?”

“Shit!” Dean flailed his limbs to get off the bed, but ended up tangling himself in the sheets. “Shit shit _shit_!”

“Dean?” Sam rushed to Dean’s side, left leg limping. “What’s wrong? Your chest? Are you having—?”

“I’m not having a heart attack, dammit!” Dean got to his feet and pushed past Sam, stumbling to the mirror. He stripped off his shirt getting his arms stuck in the sleeves as he went. “The fluttering, the chest pains; its Cas! Mothra is Cas!”

“Cas?” Sam’s eyes widened, incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“Yes I’m sure, the dude just Dennis Quaid dream-walked me!”

“Wha- _how_? Why is he in there?”

“I don’t know!” Dean flung the t-shirt to the bed and worked at the bandage with his too short nails. “Last week I had this weird dream. I was in a bar trying to get drunk and some Mexican bartender gave me a big crystal glass of “tequila”, except instead of a worm at the bottom, it was a big ball of light. And apparently that was Cas!”

Sam blinked in disbelief. “You swallowed Cas?”

“Well when you say it like that…” He peeled away the dressing, as if he would find Castiel underneath. The five wounds were completely healed; a bit of dried blood on flawless skin. “Shit.”

Sam stared at the reflection of Dean’s healed chest. “So… you’ve had an angel inside of you for seven days?”

“This is payback for what I said after that week you were possessed by Meg, isn’t it? Five days.” A flutter danced around his rib cage. Dean’s jaw clenched. On the run for months to avoid being an angel condom, and now... He glared down at his bare chest. “Get out! Out!”

“I think if Cas wanted out he would have done it already,” pointed out Sam, handing Dean a coffee. Dean took a long drink. “I doubt he’d want to be part of your “morning routine”.”

Dean nearly spat out the coffee. Crap. Sure he hadn’t had the drive to go out and find a warm body lately, but that didn’t mean he… okay he did a few times. And Cas had been… Oh, Jesus.

“Not funny, Sammy.”

“Did he say _why_ he was in there?” asked Sam.

“He just told me that he was the one who took out the iron ghoul and I woke up,” said Dean. He swallowed another mouthful of coffee. “Didn’t stick around long enough to find out. And whatever excuse he has better be a damn good one.”

“Cas saved your life back there in the shed,” said Sam quietly.

“No,” said Dean. “You were getting closer to the gun. You were gonna take Scissorstein out.”

“I wasn’t that close.” Sam took back the coffee and gave Dean a towel. “Take a shower. I’ll call Bobby. We’ll figure this out.”

In the bathroom, Dean looked himself over in the mirror, searching for any telltale glow in his chest or in his eyes. He put his hand over where the wound had been. He remembered the warm tingle of swallowing that ball of light, the lightning and the pressure. The pleasure. And it had been Cas, going where he didn’t belong. The last person that had come that close to his core had been Famine and his cold, invasive hand. It didn’t matter that the angel had made him feel like the hole inside had been filled.

“Cas, you hear me?” he whispered.

Castiel fluttered again, making Dean’s breath come out shaky. He stared his reflection right in the eyes, putting on the same piercing stare Cas sometimes gave him.

“Just so you know, this is beyond getting in my personal space. This is violating my body. And the next time I see you in the flesh, I’m going to smack you even if I have to wear a metal glove to do it. Understood?”

The flutter in his chest died down to a slight ripple. Dean barely got wet in the shower, keeping his hands away from his crotch and the skin under which Cas lay.

\---

Dean fished a blueberry bagel out of the bag Sam offered him as they loaded up the Impala. He frowned at the way Sam limped to the passenger side seat.

“How’s the leg?” he said through a full mouth, wanting to finish the bagel before starting up the car.

“I’m dealing with it,” said Sam, getting the road map out of the glove compartment.

“You tell Bobby we’re on our way?”

“Tried to. He’s gonna look up what he can about angels being trapped in a body or freeing one. Meanwhile, he wants us in Sigourney, Iowa.”

“Now?” Dean swallowed, the lump going too slow down his throat. “I’m possessed by an angel, your balls were nearly shish-kebab, and he wants us on a case?”

“He says there might be demons there. Weather patterns and signs are pointing to it.”

Dean pursed his lips, hand gripping the sun warmed leather of the steering wheel.

Demons. He didn’t want to face off against more demons so soon after Famine. Dean trusted Sam, but demons could force his brother to drink against his will. He couldn’t take another round of hearing his brother go through detox again. And they didn’t have their usual angel on standby.

“And?” prompted Dean.

“Three kids missing in the last month,” said Sam. “Taken right out of their bedrooms. No sign of forced entry or foul play.”

Okay, that was a good enough reason. Dean strapped on his seatbelt and dusted the crumbs off his hands. “Sigourney it is then. Right after that, we deal with Cas.” He turned the key, taking comfort in the Impala’s metal purr, and they headed East.

Half a cassette into the best of Journey, Sam directed the sparse conversation back to Dean’s dilemma.

“So, you said yes to Cas?” asked Sam.

“I didn’t say yes to _Cas_ ,” said Dean. “I said yes to the drink the bartender was offering.”

“How much had you been drinking in the dream?”

“I don’t know.” Dean was reluctant to tell Sam he had practically cleaned out the bar. “A lot I guess. I couldn’t really remember.”

Sam nodded. “Did anything about the dream seem off, something that would indicate an angel was messing with it?”

“Not really. The jukebox kept playing Old No. 7. And the bartender had a really big mustache.”

Sam sighed. “So nothing.”

“Nope.”

Sam was silent for a minute, looking out at the fields of corn and soybeans as Dean kept his eyes on the road and interstate signs.

“If Cas is in you, then where is Jimmy?” asked Sam.

Dean frowned. “Good question. I’ll ask him next time I’m dream walking around my own chest cavity.”

“Well, it would explain why Cas’ phone hasn’t been picking up. I doubt Jimmy would want a call from us after what happened last time.”

“Poor bastard.” Dean grimaced, gripping the wheel tighter as Cas fluttered, brushing a wing against the back of his lungs. Jimmy Novak had been used and abused as an angelic vessel; taken away from his family and made to experience every injury Castiel went through for the rest of the angel’s existence. He wouldn’t blame the man from running.

 _Angel inside of you, it’s kind of like being chained to a comet_.

More like riding a meteor as it repeatedly hit the ground.

“It was Cas that took out the iron ghoul?” asked Sam.

“Yeah…” Then Dean thought about that for a minute. “But I thought he couldn’t get his smite on anymore?”

“Maybe it’s just demons he can’t smite,” said Sam. “You should ask him next time.”

Dean grumbled. “Getting a whole list for Inside the Actor’s Studio.”

\---

While Sam checked in the Red Fern motel on the outskirts of the town, Dean fetched them a late lunch and the local paper.

Sigourney. Another small town south of a big town. Brick building boardwalk, small church, and a city park with a fountain. And, thankfully, a pizza joint that had carry out mozzarella sticks.

Dean grinned around the best breaded cheese stick he’d had in a while, marinara dripping down his chin. The taste was heavenly, and for a moment he wondered if Castiel could taste what he tasted.

Sam, being Sam, looked disgusted. “Dude, gross.”

“What?” said Dean. “I’m eating for two.”

“You can’t use Cas as an excuse to block your arteries.”

“Whatever.” Dean tossed Sam the newspaper to the side of Sam’s personal pizza. “Got an update on the case. Another kid went missing yesterday; David Reed, nephew of the local priest.”

“Damn.” Sam’s fingers passed over the picture of a nine year old boy, blond haired and smiling on the church steps with his widowed mother behind him. “We suit up?”

Dean nodded. “We suit up.”

\---

They visited the priest, Father Arnold, first, catching him in his small, wood paneled office in the church.

“Agents Schon and Cain,” introduced Dean as he and his brother flashed the fake badges. “Mind if we have a moment.”

“FBI?” Father Arnold bobbed his balding head, eyes wide on his all too thin face. “Yes of course. Is it about David? Have you found anything?”

“Nothing yet,” said Sam in a calming, but authoritative tone. “That’s why we wanted to talk to you.”

Father Arnold didn’t have any enemies he knew of, no protestors taking interest in his parish, no vandalism. His nephew, David, had become an altar server after the death of his father. According to Father Arnold, David had adjusted well, enjoying his duties and learning Latin after school as a hobby.

The parish had been holding prayers circles for the missing children while organizing the neighborhood watch in the community center to help with searches and give moral support to the families. But when David had disappeared from his bedroom in the middle of the night, the priest’s hope had faltered. He had spent the last day comforting his sister-in-law, Allison, as the police had questioned them.

Father Arnold took a pendant and chain out of his pocket, cupping it in his hands. “His saint pendant was left behind. David never took it off, even to sleep. It was the last thing my brother gave him before he left for Iraq. I don’t know why he would take it off.”

Dean pursed his lips. The chain was new, but the pendant was old and worn; Saint George. Genuine. Holy pendants were sometimes a repellant against demon possession. Something had to convince David to take it off. He wondered if Father Arnold knew that.

Dean took an excuse to go to the bathroom to look around the rest of the church. There was a lewd note in the confessional under the cushion from a girl who wrote in pink pen to a boy named Zach, but nothing to indicate a demon had been inside the church. Not that a demon could do much on holy ground in the first place. No sulfur, no hex bags in the pews, or herbs along the candles, and the font in the foyer was crystal clear. He’d have to fill a couple flasks with holy water before he and Sam left.

He took a cursory glance around the altar. While small, the church had the benefit of stained glass windows that took the clouded afternoon light and bathed the worn pews into a rainbow watercolor. The altar and humble wood and stone crucifix behind it were awash in cool blue.

Something pushed him.

Dean jerked a hand to his chest. It felt like Castiel had shoved against his sternum. He walked back towards the foyer, only to have the angel tug his center of gravity back towards the cross with a flutter.

“Knock it off,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

“Dean?” Sam came through the foyer down the aisle. The priest stood at the font, rearranging pamphlets in their holders, mostly to keep occupied. Sam tilted his head, eyebrows raised, questioning.

Dean jerked his head towards the altar, his voice a low grumble. “Cas tried to stretch his wings.”

“He trying to tell you something?” asked Sam, eying the altar.

“How am I supposed to know? I don’t speak Lassie.”

Sam stepped back to the foyer, his limp more pronounced than Dean liked. “Father Arnold, is there anything special about the altar?”

“Oh, um, yes. The table is fairly new. Marble, just installed last year. Took five years of fundraising, but we got it.” Father Arnold smiled a bit, forced pride in his parishioners for their generosity. “And the cross was a donation from some years back. The stone is from a quarry in Jerusalem, historically thought to be the site of Jesus’ tomb.”

“Do you mind if we take a look at it?”

“No, go ahead.”

Dean reluctantly followed Sam up the step onto the altar and towards the cross. The fluttering got stronger as they neared it. Feeling like an idiot, Dean touched the edge of the cross with his fingers. It was cool and rough hewn, like normal stone.

The fluttering behind Dean’s ribs surged for a moment, and then died down.

Sam gave an inquisitive hum, and Dean shook his head. “Nothing.”

Sam thanked Father Arnold for his time, making promises to look into David’s disappearance, the comforting and human aspect of the interview. Meanwhile Dean puzzled over the weary flicker he felt near his spine, like disappointment.

\---

“Well, he checks out,” said Dean, getting back behind the wheel. Allison Reed’s house wasn’t far away. Trees lined the streets, most still summer green though the weather was slowly inching towards Fall. “If the mom doesn’t give us anything to go on we’ll have to go to the police station and ask for their files on the other missing kids. So far I don’t see anything about this case that screams demon.”

“Yeah,” agreed Sam, his fingers fanning the edge of a pamphlet he took from the church. “What was the deal with Cas and the cross?”

“I don’t know. He probably got curious about the décor,” said Dean. “How’s the leg?”

“It’s fine.” Sam shrugged, eying Dean’s chest, eyes curious. “Where exactly is Cas? In you, I mean. You said you swallowed him in your dream. How would he go from your stomach to your heart?”

“I don’t know. I’m just glad he’s not taking the Magic School Bus special tour.” Dean shuddered and then felt an odd twist to the back of his ribcage, like Castiel had tilted his head to say “I don’t understand that reference.” He didn’t want the angel to understand that reference.

“Where do you feel him the most?”

Dean frowned, looking askance at his brother. “Are you nerding out about Cas being stuck in me? Cause I gotta tell you, it’s a bit creepy.”

“Humor me.”

Dean placed his hand at the bottom of his sternum, right above where his ribs bowed into an arch. “Here mostly. But it spreads from the bottom of my ribs right up to my collar bone.”

“From your ribs to…” Sam’s eyes lit up. He tossed the pamphlet onto the dashboard and reached to one of the folder cases in the back seat, straining against the seatbelt as he twisted his body and stretched his arm. “Remember those Enochian sigils Cas carved into our ribs?”

Dean winced at the memory, and then coughed at the tug at his chest. “Yeah.”

Sam fished out one of the heavier folder carriers, one they usually kept in the trunk. “Cas said it would keep us hidden from all angels in creation.”

“Yeah, something about their mojo radar unable to reach through them and ping our souls.”

“Basically keeping them out.” Sam took out the x-ray Dean had taken of his ribs, holding it up to the window and the afternoon sun. “What if they could also keep them in?”

“Angels check in, they don’t check out?” said Dean. “Yeah, not comfortable being an angelic roach motel.”

“So why would Cas try to get in if he would just get trapped?” Sam reasoned.

Dean looked apprehensive as Castiel pounded again at his ribs. Damn, he really was acting like Lassie. “I think Cas agrees with you. You think someone nabbed him and is using me as a birdcage?”

“He’s got a lot of enemies, most of them other angels.”

“Good point,” agreed Dean. But the theory didn’t ring right. If angels wanted to take Castiel out of the game, why not nab Dean himself, take him to Zachariah?

He kept his questions to himself as the car pulled up the Reed’s house.

\---

Allison Reed wrung the tissues into soaked shreds, and Sam kept handing them to her as she tried to answer their questions with composure. Sam and Dean sat with her in the living room covered with family pictures and dark wood furnishings. A framed picture of David lay at her right on the couch, like a substitute for the missing child.

“Was there anyone in particular that seemed interested in him?” asked Dean. “A school teacher or other adult?”

“No.” Allison’s tears turned into a sneer. “And I know what you’re thinking. No, no one we know is a pedophile. We‘re a good town.”

Dean grimaced. No one would know if their neighbors were demons either, but he couldn‘t blame them for not knowing about the dark world under their nose. “I’m sorry, but we do have to ask.”

“And I answered these questions before with the police. Why can’t you just ask them about it?” Allison’s voice quivered with renewed tears. “I just want David back. He’s all I have left after Aaron died.”

Aaron, David’s father who died overseas in Iraq. Dean rubbed at the fabric at this knee. According to the newspaper clippings, the other missing kids that had had been from single parent homes too. Was that the connection?

“I know,” said Sam, eyes going soft and sympathetic as Dean leaned back and let his brother do what he did best; console. “It’s hard being all alone when the one you love has been taken from you.”

Allison nodded.

“Do you mind if we see his room?” asked Dean.

After a few moments of soul searching, she said yes. It was a sunny place with a plaid comforter, blue walls and sports posters. A boy’s room.

Sam checked the windows and found a smudge of sulfur amongst the hot-wheels displayed on the windowsill. Yep, definitely demon.

As Dean passed by the closet, Cas fluttered.

“Again?” he whispered. His hand passed over the door, and on a hunch opened it. Shirts, a baseball mitt and on the top shelf… a stuffed beaver? When Dean touched the plush toy, the warmth in his chest grew, flickering with aggravation. Dean squeezed at the beaver’s belly, and felt something hard.

“Bingo.”

\---

It was late afternoon by the time they booked a motel. The remnants of a hex bag and beaver stuffing littered the motel table. The beaver skin laid empty and wrinkled like a discarded sock by Sam‘s laptop. From the contents of the hex bag, they assumed it had been used to track and watch people to whom it belonged.

“According to David’s mom, the beaver was a gift to kids in group counseling for losing a parent,” said Sam, typing away on his laptop. “Something about breaking down the dam of a kid’s emotions.”

“Pretty sure if it didn’t work for Mel Gibson, it ain’t gonna work for some kids,” said Dean, lacing up his boots. It was nearing night, they had a lead, and his hands were itching for something to active to do. “The other kids, were they part of the group too?”

“Yep. There’s a gallery on the website. All our victims are on it. They used to meet up at a community center. But it’s been empty for the last month and a half due to zoning issues. The woman in charge of the group, Cecilia Owens, cancelled the meetings soon after.”

Sam turned the laptop around, pointing out the dark haired woman in the back of the group photo, smiling, lips thin and red like the slash of a scalpel.

“I say we check the place out,” said Dean.

“Now?”

“Yes now.” Dean checked the salt rounds in his sawed off and clicked it shut. He paused. “You okay to hunt?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “I can hunt.”

“Then let’s go.”

Sam followed after him, armed and ready, clenching his jaw as he attempted hiding his limp.

\---

The amount of clouds on the horizon made for an early sunset, the sky grey and chill. Orange streetlights left puddles on the sidewalk. The high chain-link fence around the community center was held shut with a simple padlock, easily picked. Obviously the local zoning commission wasn’t all that concerned with people sneaking in. Or they didn’t care. The electricity had been shut off, but the water must still be on because something in the building kept dripping.

Walking the halls beyond the indoor basketball court, Dean could smell the clay-like rot of wet drywall. The circle of light from the flashlight bounced off walls that were dapple grey along the bottom.

“Your Cas-o-meter pinging yet?” said Sam.

“No,” said Dean with a grimace. He touched the sawed off holstered at his back. He had a feeling he might need it. “And don’t call it a Cas-o-meter.”

They moved to the back, where the hallways branched off into separate meeting rooms, their numbers faded. Dean took the left of the hallway, opening the doors with a well placed jab of his foot to keep both hands on gun and flashlight. Sam took the right, wincing when he put too much force into his kicks.

“Clear,” said Dean.

Sam checked the corners of his room, chair storage. “Clear.”

Kick. Look. “Clear,” said Dean

Kick. Look… pause.

“Sam?”

Dean looked over. Sam was stiff as a statue, chest heaving and eyes wide as he stared into the room. Dean could smell what had his brother spooked. A faint coppery smell tinged with sulfur. Demon blood. In the back of the room were four large dog cages. The four kids, hands and feet bound, lay curled up upon themselves. One lay in a nest of what was left of a stuffed bear, ripped to shreds except for it’s head. Above each kid was a bottle feeder, full of demon blood, dripping on their faces. A few dark specks made it on their lips. Past their lips.

“God…” Sam whispered, voice cracking ever so slightly on that one syllable.

Dean reached out a hand to console his brother. They found the kids. They could free them now, get them safe. And then get the hell away from the blood.

His chest twisted. Hard.

“Sam--!” A force yanked the feet out from under him and dragged him back into the room he had just opened. He hit the cement support beam in the middle of the room with enough force to crack it up to the ceiling. His left arm ached with a sickening twist, dangling from his shoulder. Dean braced himself for another burst of force, even as he was sure his arm was broken. Instead the support beam collapsed, and the ceiling went with it, burying Dean and the doorway under cement, rebar, and ceiling tiles.

\---

The bone columns bent inwards, collapsing into the dome of Castiel’s prison, making him fold his wings inwards. He could feel Dean’s lungs struggle to inflate, an echo of pain. And then the awareness that was Dean went blank, the hunter rendered unconscious.

“Dean!” he called out.

The constant heartbeat slowed.

Castiel waded into the lake using his wings as oars to push him forward. As the water went over his head he bent down, pressing his hands into the pebbles that lined the lakebed. He pushed at them, digging towards the outside. When he could feel the edge of the thin membrane that surrounded the lake, he pushed, forcing his dwindling grace through the cracks.

\---

“Dean!” Sam ran to the pile of rubble and started digging, skinning his shaking hands on the raw edges of rebar. He groaned, body creaking as he tried to uncover the doorway. His foot slipped and he banged his knee against the cement. But he kept pulling, working for each inch.

“Oh Sam,” a female voice called.

Sam turned back to the cages, back to the gut twisting smell. Cecilia Owens, dressed in black trousers and a maternal sweater, walked around the cages, eyes blinking to a greedy black. The caged children had awoken from the commotion, looking at him with hope, but cringing away at the demon’s gaze.

“I figured you’d show up sooner,” the demon said, plucking at the wire cages with her long fingernails. “But better late than never.”

Sam adjusted the grip on his knife, but he didn’t leave the rubble. “You were expecting us?”

“No, just you,” she said. “It was either hope you showed up or I’d make do with my little experiments.”

Sam’s stomach churned. “Experiments?”

Cecilia gestured back to the cages, the children cringing. “Three tiny drops made you fit to be king. I wondered, how much would it take to make a whole new breed of soldier?”

“Out of innocent kids?” Sam stood, stepping closer, through the doorway.

“They might be kids, but innocent is such a subjective word.” Cecilia squeezed the water bottle attached to the first cage, the nozzle sending a squirt of blood all over the boy’s face, eliciting a whimper. “I’ve seen what goes on in their poor lonely heads. They’re guilty, scared, pliable as clay. Could lash out at any time really. Ever wonder what kind of mental break it takes for a kid to bring a gun to school?”

Sam clenched his jaw, reluctantly walking over to the cages. “I won’t let you use them like this.”

Cecilia looked pensive for a moment, then smiled, warm as she could. “I’m not asking you to stop me.” She took one of her long nailed hands and made a clenching motion. The girl in her cage jerked back against the wires, clutching at her throat, choking. “We’re asking you to make a choice.”

Two black eyed men stepped through the doorway and took their place at Sam’s left and right. They looked eager for a fight, crowbars in hand, but reluctant to touch the vessel of Lucifer.

“Drop the knife,” one of them said.

The girl clawed harder at her throat, lips turning blue. If Sam didn’t do as they said they’d just kill her and move on to the next kid. Sam dropped the knife and kicked it towards the cage. If the kids were desperate enough, he hoped they could use it if he lost himself.

The girl dropped, coughing. Cecilia pulled up the sleeve of her clawed arm. Still smiling, she set the sharp edge of a fingernail at her pale wrist and drew a line of red as deep as her lips.

“Just one sip, Sam. Fresh and warm. That’s all we’re asking. Don’t drink, and the kids die. Drink, the kids go free, and maybe you’ll have enough strength to save your brother. Or unbury what’s left of him. Don’t know really, lot of sharp edges in there. Might get tetanus.”

Sam licked at his dry lips, glancing over at the pile of rubble and then back to the demon‘s slit wrist. He could taste the memory of copper and warmth. The smell that slid like oil to the back of his throat. And he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to disappoint his brother again, get lost in power again.

But losing Dean wasn’t an option.

With a gesture of her bloody hand, the demon slammed the door shut, trapping Sam in the room.

“Tick tock, Sam,” said Cecilia. The two other demons banged their crowbars against the cages, making the children cringe into little balls. “Every moment you hesitate is another moment your brother is suffocating.”

Sam had no other choice. He took one step forward, his stomach dropping down to his toes.

The door flew off its hinges and right into Cecelia, knocking her to the ground. A whimper came from the cages. The two demons behind Sam looked to the doorway.

Dean stood, the doorframe splintered around him, side bloody, chest heaving, and face set in a pissed off glower. “ _Exoricizamus te_ ,” he grunted, bringing up the sawed off.

Bang!

Sam dove for the knife, slashing at the demon’s legs to his right as he rose back up on one knee. The other demon got a salt slug to the chest. Not enough to do more than sting, but keeping him in range of the demon-killing knife.

“ _Omnis immundus spiritus,_ ” continued Dean, speaking louder with each step. After each phrase of the exorcism was the click of reload and a bang. For a moment Sam could see a glint of something glowing in Dean’s eyes. “ _Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio._ ”

The boy at the end of the cages looked at Dean with rapt attention, as if the words were something he understood.

Sam swung up with the blade, nicking the demon in the ribs before being shoved back and held by the demon getting the brunt of Dean’s bullets. It was hard for the demons to fight him off when they knew they shouldn’t kill him.

“ _Inferniis adversari, omnis iegio,_ ” continued Dean, bringing the gun up like a club and hitting the demon holding Sam. Sam could feel the force of Dean’s strength like static in the air. “ _Omnis congregato et secta diaboiica_!”

The cage next to the broken door tipped back, making the girl inside shriek. Cecelia, her ribs bowed in like broken egg and an arm bent in three places, hissed and threw her arm out, pushing Dean back and over the cages with a force that crackled against his skin. She lunged at him, wrapping her small, bloody hands around his throat. The contents of her broken torso spilled out at her feet as she raised him off the ground.

“Shut up!”

Sam kept the words going as he kicked out at the other demon with his good leg. “ _Ergo, draco maiedicte_.”

The demon holding him put its hand over his mouth.

Despite the force trying to cut Dean’s air off, he choked out a few more words. “ _Ecciesiam… tuam… secri… ti-_ ”

Cecelia’s hand clenched tighter, cutting Dean off with a gurgling noise. Flecks of smoke like a lit match hissed out from between her teeth.

“Shut. Up!”

They didn’t expect the small, wavering voice from the end of the cages. “Secri t-tibi facias!”

Cecilia glared over at the cage, the skin on her cheekbones bursting open from her twisted facial muscles. The boy’s voice, at first timid, grew in strength when he saw his captor was afraid. “ _Iibertate servire, te rogamus_!”

The demons’ jaws stretched wide, screaming as their smoky essence was drawn from the stolen bodies. The clouds roared around the dilapidated ceiling before dissipating through the cracks in the walls.

Dean collapsed, gasping for air. Sam was dragged down by the dead weight of two corpses. After a moment of silence, both brothers looked at the last cage where the boy sat in stunned silence.

“David?” croaked Dean.

The boy nodded. The three other kids in the cages grasped at the wires, worried.

“Your uncle, Father Arnold, he teach you that?” asked Dean.

David nodded again.

Sam smiled. “You did good.”

“Yeah.” Dean breathed out a huff, as if exhausted. The glint in his eyes was gone, and Sam wondered just how much the trapped angel had helped.

Dean’s eyes widened and he rubbed at his chest. “Really good.”

Perhaps Castiel was showing his approval, thought Sam.


	3. Chapter 3

It took a little convincing from the brothers to get the children out of the rusted cages. They were wary of Dean at first, needing a few comforting smiles and a show of hands empty of weapons. Sam took extra care around the demon blood leaking from the water bottles, cleaning his knife and hands thoroughly. It had taken much for Sam to relate in choked whispers what Cecelia’s plans had been, and her offer. 

“If you hadn’t come in when you did, I would have said yes.” Sam hung his head in shame. 

“Good thing I came in when I did then,” said Dean, trying to brush off the conversation until they were back on the road. 

“Dean, when you took out the door, your eyes glowed.” 

Dean didn’t reply, but his jaw clenched. 

They found a bathroom with working pipes and a bucket and the kids took turns being doused with cold water mixed with a bottle of holy water. Dean’s hands, a few minutes ago so sure with a gun, shook as he cupped water over the kid’s heads. 

“Dean?” asked Sam, refilling another bottle. “You okay?” 

“Fine,” said Dean. The kids shivered in the dark, but were surprisingly calm, taking turns cleaning out their mouths. Learning demons were real could screw up a stable adult. He didn’t know how the kid’s would deal with it afterwards. “I’m going to get a blanket from the Impala.”

Sam’s face drew down into a concerned scowl. Dean didn’t care, he needed a moment to study the silence in his chest. And he was sure his brother wanted to have a heart to heart with the kids about the demon blood. 

Outside the fence, Dean took off his jacket and ran a hand down his dirty but whole left arm. It had been broken, he had felt the bone snap. Now? Bruised to hell, nothing more. His fingers idly traced the outline of the hand shaped scar on his shoulder. 

“Cas?” said Dean, voice quiet as a prayer. “You okay in there?” 

The movement was less a flutter more a lazy wave, as if Castiel hadn’t the strength to move. Why was he so weak now? 

They dropped the kids off on the back-lot next to Father Arnold’s church. The kids swore to tell no one of Sam and Dean, their eyes wide and weary. The brothers hightailed it to the motel room. Dean wanted to shower, change and hit the road. The door had barely closed behind them when Sam spoke up. 

“You gonna tell me what happened back there?”

Dean stilled, his bloodstained shirt half off his shoulders. After the week they had they were going to have one hell of a laundry day. 

“What do you want me to say?” said Dean, tossing he shirt towards the duffle. “I got buried under half a building and broke my arm, next thing I know I’m shoving concrete off me like the Hulk.” 

“Your eyes were glowing.” Sam limped to the bed and collapsed. “Did Cas take the wheel?” 

“No,” said Dean. Good God he didn’t want to think what would happen if Castiel took over his body. “It was just me… well, me with an angel battery. A healing angel battery, which I thought he’d lost too.” 

Dean rubbed at his sternum. He could still feel the tendril of Cas’ essence threading out to his fingertips along his nerves, giving him the strength to shove off the concrete and rebar. Enough healing to fix his arm. Enough to get up and kick demon ass. 

And it had felt so good. Sarah Conner melded with the Terminator and kick ass, good. His insides had been warm and whole, with purpose, with direction. He wondered if that was what Sam had felt like when using his powers under the influence of demon blood. 

“How’s Cas?” asked Sam. 

Dean shrugged. “I guess he’s okay. Not moving as much. Not like he can talk right now.” 

“But he can talk to you in your dreams, right?” 

“That was one time. I’ll find out when we get to Bobby’s.” 

Sam frowned. “You want to leave? Now?” 

“Sooner we get to Bobby’s the better.” 

“Look, _some_ of us aren’t imbued with an angel inside of them. Which means I need sleep.” Sam flopped his lanky arms down on the floral bedspread, exasperated. “And I’m not sleeping in the car after what we just went through. Okay? Sleep, and talk to Cas if you can.” 

Sam shucked off his shoes and threw the bedspread over himself. 

“You’re just gonna sleep in your clothes?” asked Dean. 

“Shower if you want. I’m not moving.” 

“Fine, I will, bitch.” The shower was short, a lukewarm rinse washing away the concrete dust and the smell of wet drywall and iron. When Dean got out of the bathroom Sam was asleep. He wouldn’t be able to wake his brother unless Lucifer came knocking. No heading to South Dakota tonight. 

Fuck it. Might as well sleep.

\---

The dreams of knives and fire didn’t find Dean. 

The lake. Daylight without a sun and the pale arc of glass ribs instead of clouds in a blue sky. Castiel sat on the edge of the dock, feet dangling over the edge and back hunched over, weary. Had it not been for the inky shadow of wings stretched out behind him, Dean could have imagined Castiel with a fishing pole. 

“We gonna do this every night?” said Dean. “Me meeting you in… well, me?” 

Castiel looked up and moved his left wing out of the way for Dean to sit, the feathers slightly more solid, like soot on glass. Even in the dream Dean could feel the flutter inside, just right of his heart, heavy and warm. 

“I would prefer it,” said Castiel. “Communication in any other form extremely limited. I can hear you and Sam, feel the presence of demons, but that is the extent of my… prison.” 

Dean’s fingers scratched at the wood next to him. Of course his body was an angel’s prison. One Michael wanted to break into. “Well, keep talking because I have a shit-ton of questions. First, how did you get in me?”

Castiel bowed his head, shame dragging it down. “You and Sam surmised that I was captured and put here against my will. You were right. After… Famine, I was praying as well. Hoping for direction, for help. For God.” 

Dean’s jaw clenched. Castiel had no right to listen in on that. 

“Soon after, I continued my search for Him,” said Castiel. “Zachariah found me when I sought out a shrine in the Sahara. After the fight I ran to Bangkok. There, I crossed paths with Gabriel.” 

Dean cursed and rubbed at his eyes. The over the top mustached bartender should have been the first clue. “And you couldn’t fly away?” 

“I should have,” admitted Castiel. “But I thought his being there was providence, perhaps a sign that he was willing to join our cause, willing to help me. I was wrong.” 

“He took you out of Jimmy and stuck you in the drink?” 

Castiel shook his head. “I am still within my vessel. Jimmy Novak has passed on to peace after my first altercation with Raphael. I’m alone in this body.” 

“Alone in _me_ ,” said Dean. He leaned back, propping his torso up on his arms. “Why? I mean what’s Gabriel’s endgame? Did he want to punish you? Punish me?” 

Castiel shrugged, his wings drifting down towards the smooth wood of the dock. “Both I would imagine.” 

“Okay, million dollar question, how do we get you out?” 

The wings slumped fully on the dock, feathers laid out askew, reaching all the way back towards the edge of the lake. “I don’t know.” 

Dean’s fists thumped the dock. “That doesn’t help, Cas.” 

Castiel got to his feet; the wings rising with him, making a hot ripple run through Dean’s lungs. He pointed to the near transparent arc of a rib, face pinched in anger. “Can you see the sigils?” 

Dean squinted into the blue distance, his vision not hampered by an ever changing dream alphabet. “Yeah. So Sam was right. The tagging you put on our ribs, that’s what’s keeping you in?” 

“Partially. The sigils I placed on the outside of your ribs work to contain the resonance of your soul. Containing an angel takes much more. These new ones are drawn on the _inside_.” 

Inside. Dean palmed over his chest, eying the new angel scratches. The shots of heady gold Dean had downed before swallowing Cas, the ones that had spun like toothpicks and candle flames. That must have been what created the new set of sigils, created Castiel’s prison. 

“You can’t just take your angel-blade and carve away at them?” While Dean didn’t like the idea of a tiny Cas whittling away at his bones, he liked the idea of the angel trapped even less. The angel looked downtrodden being stuck in one place. He couldn’t imagine being stuck inside the so called “Righteous Man” was all that fun. 

Castiel shook his head again. “I’m trapped within a… membrane manifested by the sigils. I cannot reach, remove, or disfigure them. If I were not cut off from heaven, possibly.” 

“Yeah, about that.” Dean got to his feet, hands on his hips. “Before, you couldn’t heal Bobby, but you’re healing me from the inside. You couldn’t smite demons before, but you took out that Scissorstein. Are you getting stronger or have you been bullshitting us?” 

“I wasn’t lying,” said Castiel, seeming tired. “I was cut off from Heaven, I still am. From what I studied of the sigils, they work to preserve the cage, keep me locked in. Which means making sure you stay whole. But the healing is slow. When you were mortally wounded I forced my grace through the membrane, hoping it would speed up the healing.” 

“I felt like I chugged a five hour energy,” admitted Dean. “So I can’t lay hands to give Bobby his legs back or help Sam?”

“No,” said Castiel. “I’m sorry.” 

“Figures.” Dean scuffed his book on the smooth slats. “What about the smiting?” 

“That, technically, wasn’t smiting. The iron ghoul pierced your ribs, and the membrane, with damned metal. Breaching it was akin too…” Castiel paused, searching for a proper metaphor. “Taking a section out of the Hoover Dam. My grace overwhelmed it. Theoretically I could take on a demon through you, but doing so would take a large part of my grace, and part of your soul. 

“Then let’s not do that,” said Dean. “I’d like to keep what’s left of my soul. What took you so long to talk to me?” 

“Breaking the membrane also allowed me to reach out to your mind while you dreamed. Had you not been attacked, it is possible I would have been trapped with no form of communication for a very long time.” 

Dean gave a low whistle. “Well that’s a silver lining.”

How long would Dean have gone with life none the wiser that Castiel had been sealed in his flesh? He had gone five days until Sam brought up the twitches and flutters in his chest. Without his prodding it could have taken weeks. Hell, months. 

“Okay, last question for now,” said Dean. “What was the deal with the stone cross in Father Arnold’s church? For a second I thought you were trying to push your way outta me.” 

Castiel’s wings dipped again, his hand reaching into the pocket of his trench coat. He pulled out Dean’s amulet, the cord tangled around his fingers. Dean’s fingers twitched to reach out and take it back. It had been so long since the worn cord had been around his neck. And if they couldn’t find a way to get Castiel out, the amulet would be stuck here. 

“I thought that it might be a remnant of God,” said Castiel, sighing. “I was wrong. I’ve been wrong a lot lately.” 

“You were trying at least,” said Dean. “If at first you don’t succeed, try try again. Kind of a human thing.” 

The angel rubbed the amulet’s face. His wings closed in at this back, the sooty black thicker and soft, and yet sharp as electrical sparks. 

“I’m not used to being idle,” said Castiel. A puff of air tussled his hair, rippling at the lake’s mirroring surface. 

“I can relate.” Dean knew the urge for answers, the same one that had pushed him and Sam on the road to find their father. The need to see and know he wasn’t dead, that he still cared. 

Dean sighed and looked around at the tranquil lake. Aside from a faint dream he remembered with a couple of strippers and edible paint, this was one of his better dreams. The sky thinned from blue to black. His arms grew heavy; the energy draining from him as he slowly woke up. 

“I didn’t expect to see this again,” said Dean. “If this is gonna be every dream it’s gonna get boring fast. Like being stuck on the golf channel.” 

“I fully expected you to punch me.” 

Dean looked askance at the angel. 

“You did promise to kick my ass the next time you saw me.” 

“Yeah, well maybe next time.” 

The questioning tilt of Castiel’s head was the last thing he saw before waking. 

\---

Dean had the TV on as they packed. The morning local news featured the miraculous return of the missing children. One camera focused on David being hugged by his tearful mother and Father Arnold slipping the saint pendant back over his nephew’s head. A happy ending, job well done. Except the children weren’t talking about where they had been and what had happened, claiming they couldn’t remember. 

After a few minutes of the newscasters waxing eloquent on police theories, Sam turned the news off. 

“We’ll have to keep an ear out,” said Sam. 

Perhaps Castiel could have laid his hands on the kids’ heads and seen if any of the blood’s taint had taken hold. Right now they could only hope the kids would remain well. 

Dean nodded, grim. “We will. How’s your leg?” 

“Healing.” Sam shrugged. They picked up their duffels and walked out into the sun blinding parking lot. Sam didn’t wait until they had reached the sanctuary of the Impala. “Cas say anything last night?” 

“He said a lot of things last night.” Dean slumped into the driver’s seat and Sam mirrored him on the other side, easing his leg into the car. As they meandered through town towards the interstate, Dean laid out what Castiel had told him; Gabriel, the sigils, the membrane, and walking in Dean’s dreams. After a few turns of the radio dial, Dean found a classic rock station. 

Good bye Sigourney, hello Interstate 80. 

“So, Gabriel snagged Cas, put him in a drink for some twisted reason, and you swallowed him,” said Sam. 

Dean shook his head. “He _tricked_ me into swallowing.” 

Sam smirked and Dean just shook his head harder. He had walked right into that one. Castiel didn’t respond, not that he would have gotten the double meaning anyway; failed excursion to a brothel or no. 

Which brought up the question, if Dean got laid right now, would that make it a threesome? And would it count towards Castiel getting rid of his V-card? 

Dean didn’t know if he should be freaked out at the thought, or laugh hysterically. He settled for a private smirk. 

Sam continued. “I was right about the angel scratches keeping him trapped, just not the ones Cas carved. And he can’t get out unless we can find a way to get rid of them.” 

“That’s right,” said Dean. “And I’m not keen on breaking my ribs just to break Cas out.” 

Dean rolled his shoulders, stretching a bit after a few hours at the wheel, and he felt Cas settle at the base of his ribs as a thrumming warmth, little more than a sound, little less than a touch. Was Castiel moving more, or was Dean simply more aware to what was going on in his body? Like being reminded of blinking and breathing, self conscious once it was brought to his attention. 

“We’ll see what Bobby says when we get to Sioux Falls.” Sam sighed and adjusted his legs in the foot well. “At least we don’t have to worry about Jimmy wandering around without his angel.” 

An early start on the road to Sioux Falls meant a breakfast of cereal bars that had been sitting in their cellophane packages for too long, sugar syrup melted into the cellophane folds. Both brothers needed better sustenance. When Dean’s stomach gave a deep, hollow growl he felt a stunned flutter spring from the base of his spine up to his collarbones, tickling. Dean’s hand shot up to the base of his throat as a laugh escaped. 

Sam looked at him, eyebrows raised. 

“Looks like Cas is scared of a hungry stomach.” 

Sam laughed under his breath, and Castiel gave a small shove of indignation. 

When they reached Des Moines they stopped for a lunch big enough to make up for the sparse breakfast at a well lit Village Inn. Dean eyed the bacon cheeseburger on the menu while Sam contemplated the Cobb salad with a side of grilled chicken. Both were eager for protein, but Dean had to summon up an appetite for cheeseburgers. The memory of Castiel heaving out raw beef had put a damper on his appetite. After they ordered, Sam limped away to the restroom, leaving his laptop open and connected to the local wi-fi. 

Dean glanced around and then slid the laptop to his side of the booth. Curiosity drove him to do a Google search. Anatomy pictures. 

Basic anatomy was essential knowledge for hunts; know how to patch someone up, know how serious a wound was. Also to know the best way to kill something. Werewolf; silver bullet between the fourth and fifth ribs just left of the sternum. Vampire; aim for the notch just below the Adam’s apple to slice through the spinal cord. 

Get an angel out of a ribcage; who knows? But it couldn’t hurt to see where Cas was ghosting around. 

The search brought up a variety of pictures, pink lined cutaways of anatomy drawings, heart, liver, lungs all exposed for prodding. Mirroring the path shown on the screen, Dean’s hand traced Castiel’s journey inwards. Lips, the swallow. His hand cupped at the hinge of his jaw and the stubble there, down the neck; the esophagus squished behind the trachea in the throat. His fingers met the rough edge of the Henley he had on under his jacket and kept going; into the chest cavity, the esophagus going beyond the bronchial tubes that branched into the lungs until it pressed tight behind the heart. 

Dean pressed his palm to the space under the anti-possession tattoo. The way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, or at least a strong drink down the same path. 

Between the lobes of the lungs was the cardiac sac. Veins and arteries branched off to receive oxygen in a small, compact area. And somehow his ribs, stretching with panic and lightening, had managed to fit Castiel. 

And it had felt good, to have the gaping holes left from hell and life filled in. No more rotting emptiness, just peace. Dean’s hand slipped lower to the arch of his ribcage, pressing in as if he could feel feathers against his fingers. 

After the heart, the esophagus continued on to the diaphragm and then through it until it deposited its cargo into the stomach. Alongside the stomach was the pancreas, liver, glands, all defended by his ribs. His body caged an angel, keeping him inside along with organs and a beating heart beneath skin and flesh. A living matryoshka. 

“Dean.” 

Dean’s hand flicked away from his torso and he closed the tab on the screen. He looked up at Sam, trying to look innocent, but failing. “Yeah?” 

Sam pursed his lips, looking like he was going to press the issue, but gave up and sat, dragging the laptop back over to his side of the booth. “Nothing.” 

Their food arrived and they dug in. Dean got three fourths of the burger down and decimate the fries. Not bad. 

\---

In Sigourney, Allison Reed closed the door on another pair of reporters. After a day of talking to the police and taking in all the well-wishes of the town, she knew David just wanted to rest. Rather than sleep in his room, he had taken up the couch in the living room, curled up in his favorite PJs under a blanket and watching cartoons. He could watch late night HBO if he wanted, she was just glad to have him back. 

“Mom?” David called from the living room. 

Allison had been in the middle of making him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when she had answered the door to shoo away the reporters. He must be hungry. 

“Coming, sweetie.” She grabbed the plate from the kitchen, and then stopped in the doorway of the living room. 

An older man with a condescending smile stood next to the couch. He had gray hair, wore a suit, and looked like he was forcing himself to talk to a turd. David ran to her side, eyes wide. 

Allison dropped the plate and held her son close, fingernails gripping at his PJ top. She took a step back with him. Should she call the police first, or defend herself? 

“Who are you?” she said. She took a step closer to the closet where her husband had always kept a loaded gun on the top shelf. It was still there when she had checked it last, the day David had disappeared. “I told you reporters already, he doesn’t remember anything.” 

“I’m not a reporter,” said the man, his voice slightly nasal. “Name’s Zachariah. Acquaintance of Sam and Dean.” 

David stiffened under Allison’s protective hands. Zachariah smiled. 

“Now, I know you must remember something, David. And it would help me, and Sam and Dean, if you could answer a few questions for me. Then I’ll be on my way.” 

David’s hand clutched at the saint pendant, muttering Latin under his breath like a spell that would make the man go away. Two men in suits appeared behind Allison and bodily pulled her from her boy. She screamed and one covered her mouth, nearly suffocating her. David’s voice stuttered in its Latin plea. 

“Wrong kind of prayer, kid.” Zachariah tsked and shook his head. “Just tell me one thing, did your heroes have a guy wearing a trench coat with them?” 

\---

Sam and Dean were coasting along I-29 when Sam’s cell beeped. Bobby calling in. 

“Hello?” said Sam. “Yeah, we’re fine…. The hunt went well. You were right; demons. Kinda weird though… I’ll explain when we meet up.” 

Dean figured Sam might want to talk to Bobby alone about the blood thing. As much as the brothers were trying to reconcile Sam’s addiction, sometimes an outside view helped. That and Bobby’s couch-side manner usually came with a bottle of whiskey. Also, the wheelchair bound hunter could send word around the hunter network about Iowa. 

“Yeah, we’re about 90 minutes out,” said Sam. “Augustana College Library? Uh, yeah we can meet you there. We’ll call you when we get on campus…. Kay, see you there.” Sam clicked the cell shut. 

“He’s in a college library?” said Dean. 

“Yeah. Apparently there are some old books there even he doesn’t have a copy of.” 

“I wanna know how he got there.” 

\---

“They better not scratch my baby.” Dean parked at a meter and paid up the limit of 90 minutes; one of the few things that couldn’t be taken care of with a stolen credit card. He eyed the heavily used bike rack, imagining the spindly tires trying to take a hit on his beloved car. 

Sam, more accustomed to colleges, and graced with a map he found online, guided them to the private library on the grounds; a converted church of thick stone, its windows robbed of vibrantly colored saints and replaced with clear panes. Another renovation was a wheelchair ramp where Sheriff Jody Mills stood waiting, wearing a tan uniform, six pointed star, and a brown leather jacket. 

That answered Dean’s question to how Bobby got there. 

“Hey boys,” said Jody with a wave. “You look a wreck.” 

“Must be Thursday,” said Sam. “Hey, Sheriff.” 

Jody clasped his hand and patted him on the shoulder, just shy of a welcoming hug that she wasn’t ready to give, and did the same with Dean. 

“What all did Bobby tell you?” asked Dean. 

“He’s researching angels and had to come here. Didn’t say anything else and I’m not asking.” Jody gestured to the stairs right inside the doorway. “Bobby’s in the preservation room. I got to talk to the curator about letting us stay past closing. You going to be okay?” 

“Yeah,” said Sam. 

“Good. And I’ll see if I can find some decent coffee while I’m out.” 

They found Bobby in a room with double glass doors and a dial for humidity and light control. Dark wood bookshelves lined the room, gilded spines and dark leather shining back. Bobby’s hat lay next to a stack of old manuscript cases, loose pages as dark and thick as tobacco leaves. A spiral ringed notebook was slowly being filled with pencil scratches. Bobby turned when the door opened and waved them over with a cotton gloved hand. 

“Took you boys long enough.” Bobby’s voice sounded dry, deep and tired. Last time the brothers saw Bobby, he had been mourning the second death of his wife. The grief from then still lingered in the old hunter’s face. His eyes darted down to Dean’s chest. “How have you been?” 

Dean managed to not rub at the warm spot below his sternum. It sucked being self conscious all the time. “Been better. What have you got?” 

“Was about to ask you the same thing. Not much in the bible about trapping angels so I’ve been reading over the journals of some missionaries that wrote down bits and pieces of Native American lore. Been trying to find some spiritual overlap.” 

“Sounds good,” said Sam. The brothers sat down. “We got a few updates from Cas.” 

“How?” asked Bobby. 

Dean spun his finger at his head. “Dream trippin’ with an angel. Kinda _What Dreams May Come_ meets _Rainman_.” 

“At this point I’ll take anything to narrow the search,” said Bobby, fingers tapping at the armrest of his wheelchair. “I’ve been reading everything from menstruation rituals to squash recipes.” 

Dean grimaced and gave a quick summary of what he learned from Castiel. 

“Sounds to me we need to get a look at those sigils,” said Bobby. “Can you remember what they looked like?” 

“There’s a lot of them.” Dean shook his head. “But I can take a closer look next time I’m dream walking.” 

“Would it help if another person was dreaming with you?” asked Sam. “We still got some of that dream root left.” 

“Okay, not cool on you getting all up in my ribcage, dude,” said Dean. 

“Hey, I had both of you boys up in my head last time we were group dreaming,” said Bobby. He put the papers back in their case, peeled off the gloves, tucked the notebook beside his legs, and then pushed his chair away from the table. “I think you can both stow the personal space crap. If nothing else we can stop by a hospital and Sheriff Mills can convince Radiology to give you a few more x-rays.” 

“At this rate I’m gonna croak from radiation before Michael gets his hands on me.” 

Sam attempted to push Bobby’s chair for him, but Bobby waved him off. “I can wheel my own ass, boy.” They followed him out to the single person elevator. 

Bobby rolled himself into the elevator barely big enough for his chair. “Have you thought about calling up Gabriel and threatening to deep fry his wings?” 

“Summoning an archangel isn’t easy.” Dean grinned bitterly. Castiel wavered, spinning about in Dean’s chest. “Cas and I know from experience. I got enough angels on my list to fill a KFC bucket with extra crispy. Especially Zachariah.” 

As the door of the elevator began to shut, Castiel shoved hard, a hot press against the base of his throat. Dean gasped, one hand at his chest, the other going for a knife. Movement like that didn’t mean anything good. 

“Incoming,” said Dean, knife in hand. 

The sound of large wings cut through the air. Two suited angels, one black one gray, appeared behind the brothers. Bobby cursed as the doors closed on him. Dean and Sam darted down the stairs, Sam nearly going ass over teakettle thanks to his leg. The same angels blocked the ground floor exit and the still shut elevator door. No way to get out and no way to get Bobby. The afternoon sun shone like a blade on the lobby floor, sharp and bleaching. 

Dean and Sam went back to back, eyeing the angels that had their blades out, but didn’t move towards them. 

“Let me guess,” said Dean. “You wanna tell us about the book of Mormon?” 

“Where is Castiel?” said the black suited angel. 

“Castiel the angel in a trench coat,” said Sam, putting his hands behind his back and nicking his palm with a small knife. “Or Castiel the angel in love with a trapeze artists?” 

“What?” said Dean. 

“It’s a movie.” 

“The rebellious, former angel of the Lord,” spat the gray angel, pointing his blade at Dean. “Call Castiel. Zachariah will see justice done upon him, and then you will take your place as Michael’s vessel.” 

“Pretty sure that’s not in the good book,” said Dean. A heady, heavy pulse thrummed in his chest, sending strength to his limbs. His senses spiked, hearing the harshness of Sam’s breath, the smell of blood, the creak of his leather jacket, and for a moment, a faint shadow of wings.

“We haven’t seen him,” insisted Sam. “We’ve tried calling his cell, he won’t answer.” 

That at least was the truth, but Dean doubted the angels would believe it. 

“Lying abomination!” the black angel snarled, raising his blade in an arc over his head. 

Dean shot his hand out, catching the angel’s arm by the wrist before the blade could touch Sam. The black angel switched from attacking Sam to pinning down Dean, throwing off his grip and then grabbing his jacket collar. Dean grabbed back, swinging the angel around by his shoulders and shoving him into the bookshelf lining the staircase. The shelves broke on contact, books fluttering down like shot pigeons. 

Sam ran to a bare wall, smearing the beginning of a banishing sigil. The gray angel reached up and grabbed Sam by the back of the neck, bearing him down to the ground with one hand as he pressed his blade to the soft flesh of Sam’s cheek, sliding down to the line of his throat. 

“Where is Castiel?” said the gray angel. 

Dean lunged towards the angel holding Sam, blade out, little good it could do. The black angel latched on to Dean’s elbow and swung him around to crash into the broken shelves, the splintered edge catching Dean in the side. Broken ribs were supposed to be painful, but he couldn’t feel it. 

The elevator door dinged open. 

Bobby, blood dripping down his arm, slapped his hand on the sigil smeared on the mirrored wall, banishing the angel’s righteous asses back to the clouds. The lights flickered and Dean felt a sharp twist in his chest, and then a force shoving him back. From the backs of the angels the shadow wings sprouted, limbs flailing as they were ripped away from the earth and back into the ether. 

\---

Castiel dug his fingers in between the mud and rock of the lakebed, pushing what strength he could afford towards Dean. 

At first it was a tug at his feathers, a warning. Then a sucking force pulled at Castiel’s wings, stretching tendons and ripping out feathers as it dragged him out of the lake and pulled up and up until he smacked against the bone pillars. The sigils glowed, resisting the pull of the spell as the angel was caught in the middle, trying to tear him in two. 

Castiel yelled as the force tore at his thrashing wings, trying to tear him away from Dean’s body even if it had to take him apart piece by piece. 

\--- 

“Gah!“ The burning suction inside Dean kept going as he fell to the floor, the force that had banished the angels lashed at his ribs like a sandstorm. Dean sealed his lips, thinking if he didn’t the angel would be pulled out through his mouth. He felt thrashing, friction enough to cause sparks. 

Then it stopped, aside from the heavy thump of his heart, his insides as still as a cemetery. The lights came back on and stayed on. 

Dean sucked in a breath that tasted of ozone, and curled up on the floor, arms braced across his chest as if trying to keep from breaking apart like a fragile clay pot. Felt like he was breathing through a straw. 

Sam crawled over to his brother, blood smeared down his neck from a shallow cut. He pulled Dean to sit up, worry etched on his face. “You okay?” 

Dean swallowed hard, pressing his hand under his ribs as he tried to suck in air. “Cas,” he rasped.

“Shit.” Sam sat back, eyes wide. His hand hovered over Dean’s chest. “He still in there?” 

Bobby batted at the elevator door that tried to close on him and rolled over to the edge of the fallen books. 

The air wouldn’t come. “I don’t know.” 

Dean blacked out. 

Jody entered the library with a cardboard four-pack of coffee and froze. A zigzagging crack went up a blood smeared wall where a bookshelf stood half mast, books askew on the floor. The elevator dinged, closing its door on a bloody handprint. Dean lay knocked out on the floor, Bobby looked everywhere but at her, and Sam wore his confused puppy face. 

“I was gone fifteen minutes,” muttered the sheriff. 

\---

A dark haze hung over the lake, like the calm after a thunderstorm. 

“Cas!” yelled Dean, standing alone on the dock. The angel couldn’t be gone; if he was then Dean wouldn’t be having this same damn dream. Would he? 

Dean looked over the edge of the dock, thinking Cas might have drowned. The water was choppy, and for some reason looked shallower. A fleck of glowing silver caught his eye, liquid and bright as it hung suspended on the surface of the lake like a buoy. More drops of silver smeared the side of the dock and leading away into the bull rushes. Dean followed the trail, pushing away the long grass, looking for any sign of a trench coat or ratty blue tie. 

He found feathers instead, dozens of them, ruffled on their edges and shafts broken. Some with bits of ripped skin and silver sticking to them. 

“Castiel?” Dean turned, a handful of feathers gathered like a bouquet. Then he heard a low groan, tinting the air with a bitter, burnt pain. Dean followed it. 

Castiel laid sprawled out on the grass, trembling, wet, and wings spread out like an Audubon display. Silver leaked through the feathers, as if the black veneer of a lamp had cracked to reveal light inside. Angel’s blood, Dean realized. Long, shallow slashes cut through Castiel’s clothing. He looked like a chewed up wreck. 

A live wreck. 

“Jesus, Cas.” Dean knelt by Castiel’s head, placing his hand on the angel’s throat to find a pulse. He didn’t even know if angels even needed one. 

The angel’s eyes cracked open. His sounded like he had been gargling kerosene. “I’ve suffered worse.” 

“Okay, but we are not doing that again.”

Castiel coughed. “I would appreciate that.” 

“Yeah, I’d bet,” Dean huffed. He felt like he should find a first aid kit and try to patch up the wounds, or at least stop the bleeding. Being in a dream would it do any good? 

Castiel shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Dean stripped off his jacket and folded it into a pillow for Cas’ head. 

“Cas, what do you need me to do?” Last time he asked such a question it had been for Sam’s sake, for Heaven’s sake, supposedly stopping the apocalypse until he learned the twisted truth. Now he asked it for Cas’ sake. 

“I need… rest,” said Castiel. “Time. I’m not as strong as I was before.” 

Dean nodded, gently holding the angel’s unmarred wrist. “I can do that.” 

“Thank you,” whispered Castiel. 

Dean nodded and then laid back to keep watch.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean woke up on Bobby’s couch, the low lamplight stinging his eyes. One whole wall was a pin board of angel lore and hell within arm’s length of a wheelchair. Books and loose pages heaped over the sides of Bobby’s desk like a dragon’s hoard. From the kitchen came the sizzle of the stove and the smell of toasting bread.

Dean sat up with a groan. Sam, near asleep on the chair next to him, jerked awake. 

“Dean, hey,” said Sam. He handed Dean a bottle of water. “How do you feel?” 

“I’ve been worse.” Dean groaned and rolled back his shoulders, his chest ached, but not bad enough to keep him from sitting up. “Getting so much beauty sleep I should be in a pageant. How long have I been out?” 

Bobby wheeled into the room, a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches piled on his lap. He added it to a stack of books on the desk. “Five hours. Another hour and I was tempted to haul your ass down to the emergency room; get you checked out and get some x-rays while we were there.” 

Dean sighed, grateful that he didn’t have to wake up attached to an IV or in a strange bed. Or worse, with a catheter. He switched to sit on the chair opposite Sam, taking a piece of grilled cheese while up. Toasty, cheesy goodness. “The library?” 

“University librarians are probably pissed,” said Bobby offhand. Wouldn't be the first time he‘d been kicked out of a place thanks to supernatural activity. “I made notes of the important stuff, unless you count corn and squash casserole important.” 

“Jody helped me get you back to the car and stayed behind to talk to the staff. She’ll probably swing by later.” Sam leaned forward. “How’s Cas?” 

“No more banishing sigils,” said Dean, waving his hand, insistent. “Cas can’t go through that again.” 

Bobby started to protest but Dean cut him off. 

“You did what you had to, Bobby, I know. It was the right move. But you didn’t see how bad he was. You didn’t _feel_ him being hurt. It looked like someone attacked him with a weed whacker in a tornado. And he’s still in crap shape. He takes another hit like that…” 

What happened when an angel died while trapped inside a person? Cas had been killed once, smote to a bloody pulp by Raphael. Dean didn’t want to feel that. 

“He gonna be okay?” asked Sam. 

“I don’t know. He said he needed rest. Don’t know how long.” Dean shrugged. Hard to believe Cas could bounce back, but he had to take the angel’s word on it. Cas would do it on pure stubbornness; probably a trait he learned from Dean. A frustrating trait. 

“Hope not too long,” said Bobby. “We still got Lucifer running free and an apocalypse hanging over our heads.” 

“He knows that,” snapped Dean. “You think he likes being trapped in here? Hell, I don’t like being in here sometimes.” 

Dean didn’t wait for Sam or Bobby to parse what he had just said. He tossed the crust of his grilled cheese back down on the plate and then got up. “Need some air.” 

The door to the porch didn’t squeak like it used to when he swung it open, but it slammed just as loud. Dew and the smell of iron and oil hung in the air, a nighttime smell that would burn away come morning light. The farmhouse was far enough from civilization that the stars could be seen clear as diamonds on a velvet cloth. Dean soaked it in, needed a moment of peace in the cool night air. 

He wanted a beer. Beer usually helped with finding peace, or at least the illusion of it. 

Unless you were in a bar conjured up by an archangel turned trickster. 

Okay, maybe not a beer right now. 

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, feeling all the aches and pains from long day and a lumpy couch catch up with him. He knew there was an apocalypse hanging over their heads. Hell, he’d been the one to start it in the first place. How much longer would he have to bear that weight? When would they have a problem he wasn’t fucking responsible for? 

The porch door swung open, more gently this time, Bobby easing the chair over the rubber threshold. 

“You had a ramp installed?” asked Dean, gesturing to the wooden slats built into a shallow angel on the end of the porch, painted fresh powder blue and white. 

“The back door was becoming a pain.” Bobby rubbed at his beard, flicking away crumbs. “Apparently accidental death and dismemberment insurance is good for a few things. Had Jody help with the paperwork after… well, after Karen found the papers in the first place.” 

Dean gripped the porch railing; body feeling weighted down with sandbags. The regret surrounding the second death of Karen Singer was a weight all three men bore, but none as much as Bobby. Bobby hadn’t deserved to go through that hell again, not after what he went through to protect Sam and Dean. Not after losing the use of his legs. Another loved one dead like the rest of their friends. Sometimes Dean wondered if fighting was even worth it. 

“Balls son, I know you don’t want to lose any more people to this,” said Bobby. “We’ve lost too many already. And I’d hate to be the angel’s advocate in this, but what do you think Cas would put as a priority? He’s already given his life to this cause once. I think he’d do it again. He’s a soldier. That’s what soldiers do. It’s what angels are made for.” 

Dean huffed. Angels were also made to obey. Cas had done a bang up job on that when he switched sides in the Green Room. He held his breath, trying to feel any reaction , but all he knew what Cas would choose. 

“We keep doing what we’ve been doing with Cas riding sidecar?” asked Dean. 

“We’ll make a game plan in the morning,” said Bobby. “I ain’t given up on the angel yet. We just need to juggle him with everything else. Sleep on it.” 

Sleep. Dean could do that. 

\---

Being consumed by Dean Winchester hadn’t been a pleasant experience; being compacted and confined not only in his own vessel, but inside the living body of another. 

On the first and second day Castiel had banged against the walls of the cage, yelling, trying to Dean’s attention. He didn’t want to be trapped, and didn’t know what his presence inside Michael’s vessel would do to Dean. He tested the walls of bone and flesh to find a weak spot. He found one, buried underneath the smoothed stones of the lakebed; a hair thin crack. But it wasn’t enough. There was a moment of desperation where he took out his angel blade and tried to dig at it. The result was the sigils on bone flashing and making that one weak spot stronger. It drained him. 

Where was the drained energy going? 

What would raw angel grace do to a human body? To Dean? 

On the third day, Castiel kept pushing against the membrane; not to find a weakness but to feel for possible change caused by the leaking grace. He had rebuilt Dean’s body from rotting slop, he knew every cell. Reacquainting himself with Dean’s body was like reading a favorite passage in a book. The expanding and contracting of ribs he followed like shipmen followed the sway of a boat. The heartbeat he measured like a clock. 

While impatient and anxious to continue his search for God, being trapped had been an opportunity to reexamine his goals. Even from inside a cage of flesh and bone, he held fast to his self given purpose. Protect the Winchesters. Help the Winchesters. 

And most of all, keep Dean from becoming something other than human.

Recovering was done in silence until Dean fell asleep and joined him at the lake. Dean could only take so much silence, filling it with stories. First tales on hunting, and then to heavier subjects such as “Die Hard” movies. At the moment, Dean was describing a movie series called “Star Wars”, insisting that Castiel acquire the barest of pop culture while on “furlough“. 

They sat on the dock chairs, Cas’ wings laying over the edges like a child’s splayed arms. There were still feathers missing. The lake splashed gently on the wooden pillars keeping it afloat. He could feel his scattered grace draw closer, mending the tendons and cuts and soothing the bare spots on his wings. But it was a slow process. He wasn’t gaining back his grace, just reorganizing the bit of it left. While he would heal, he would be diminished from what he was before. 

One more step down to humanity. 

And which direction was Dean going? 

Dean was in the middle of describing something called a Death Star, when Castiel cut him off. 

“What if I were human?” 

“You’d still need to know about the Death Star.” Dean paused. “What do you mean human?” 

“I won’t be much use to you when my grace is gone. Barely more than a human with a wide knowledge of languages and information not commonly used in daily life.” Castiel sat up and stripped off his trench coat, draping it over the back of the chair. His jacket followed. “Would you still consider me a friend?” 

Castiel would have to eat, sleep, defecate… possibly fornicate and reproduce since that was how humans expanded their existence through the next generation. He didn’t know if he could do any of that. Especially eating. His last experience had put him off food in general. 

“You’ll still know a shit-ton more than the rest of us,” said Dean, eyeing Cas’ hands as the tie was pulled off. “Me and Sam can teach you how to use a gun. You’ll still be Cas.” 

“I won’t be an angel.” Castiel draped the blue tie over the chair with the jacket and coat. 

“Sam can’t zap around and put the whammy on people either, and he’s still family,” said Dean. “The flying-frat-boys’ loss is our gain. Did you think we’d abandon you if you lose your wings?” 

“I’ve been feeling more insecure as of late,” said Castiel, pausing as he untied his shoes. “I’m not familiar with these feelings of loneliness. Emotions and impulses common to you are strange to me. They take a while to figure out.” 

“Any you need to talk to me about?” asked Dean. “I’m not Oprah but I can talk about “feelings” even if Sam thinks I don’t do it enough.” 

Cas shook his head, knowing that some things should remain private. Off came the socks. “If they become relevant, I’ll inform you.” And his growing affection for the hunter was not relevant. 

“Well, if you do end up joining the humanity club, do me a favor?” said Dean. “Just say no to drugs and… what are you doing?” 

Castiel finished rolling up his trouser legs to right above his knees. “Wading.” He lowered himself over the side of the dock. His wings drifted behind him for a while, then he pushed them forward and back like oars. He would miss them if they faded. 

Clear, cold, the water was a calming drag against his legs as he walked. The pebbles on the bottom of the lake were smoothed against the soles of his feet. These were human things, and they weren’t bad either. 

Dean chuckled and smiled in his direction, taking off his shoes and socks to join him. “So I guess you’re a “long walks on the beach” kinda guy.” 

“This is not a beach,” said Castiel. “And I’m a… long walks with Dean kind of person.” 

Dean bowed his head, the barest hint of a blush on his cheeks, shuffling his bare feet against the rocks and keeping his hands in his jean pockets. Once he caught up with Cas they walked in tandem, Castiel’s wings occasionally brushing Dean’s shoulder. For a moment, to Cas, it seemed all the lake needed was a red kite, and it could be a piece of heaven. 

\---

The boys were graced with a few days of uninterrupted peace. Or research galore, as it turned out. Sam had joined Bobby going through the books, looking up possible angelic unbinding spells in every language from Arabic to German. Dean kept on with the Native American angle, reading over Bobby’s notes and folklore in between answering the phones when hunters called in needing help. 

While she didn’t know the particulars of Dean’s situation, Sheriff Jody Mills helped in her own way, picking up books and requesting interlibrary loans for them so they didn’t have to leave. She came by once a day with books and a meal, usually a pasta or potato based casserole that she threw together with vegetables, a meat of the day, and cheese. It became the only way to get all the men in one room to eat, a real family dinner. Dean guessed she needed something to do instead of stay in an empty house after work. While she didn’t make herself at home at Bobby’s, she made the place seem more homely. 

Bobby never said anything against it until she came by with a casserole they didn’t know how to make heads or tails of. 

“It’s what?”

“Its California Hawaiian pizza casserole,” said Jody, dishing each of them a heaping plate. “Found the recipe on Facebook. Don’t knock it until you’ve had a bite.” 

Sam, usually the one to eat anything to please someone, hesitated. “I’ll give you five dollars to have the first bite,” he hissed to Dean. 

Jody pursed her lips and put on a look that was prelude to a “mom voice”. “Really?” 

Dean, the guy that had eaten anything and everything growing up to make sure the food and rent money could last, took the bullet. He loaded his fork with a bit of rice, bacon, pineapple, mozzarella, red onion, and barbeque. It was a bit too sweet, and the rice soggy with pineapple juice, the barbeque giving the whole thing a slightly burnt taste, or that might have been the way it was cooked. The bacon helped though. Bacon helped everything. And the red onion was a saving grace. 

Dean gave an appreciative look, about to give the casserole a six out of ten when he felt a warm, rolling flutter from his shoulder blades to his stomach. Castiel was… pleased? Damn, could the guy taste casserole? 

“What?” asked Sam, curious at Dean’s expression. 

“Hey, Mikey, he likes it,” said Dean, and he took another forkful, smiling. 

The Sheriff was pleased and the meal continued, but Sam kept looking sideways at his brother, as if seeing something wrong. 

\---

The next day Dean had an appointment with an x-ray machine. A friend of a friend of a hunter that was doing residency in a hospital two hours away. They had worked with less. Sheriff Mills accompanied the boys to the hospital, hoping he presence would disperse potential chaos. 

“I leave you two here to talk to the nurse, I’m not going to come back to entrails, am I?” asked Jody. Wary as she was, she was adapting to the hunters strange activities well. Sam and Dean were growing to like her. Stopping by with a box of donuts for the ride helped with that. 

Dean stripped off his jacket and grinned with a wink. “Only if they attack me first.” 

“It’s probably not going to happen again,” said Sam, trying to fit in a too small chair. 

Jody nodded and left with clipboard full of questionnaires. Dean folded his shirt and wondered if Castiel would show up on the film. Would he appear as a mass of light, or a small skeleton of a winged person? 

“You feeling okay?” asked Sam. 

“Fine,” said Dean, reaching for the flimsy gown that tied up the back. “While we’re here we should get your leg checked. Betcha that blonde attendant at the check-in desk would give you a once over.” 

“We get this done first,” said Sam. He chewed at his bottom lip, keeping his eyes on the posters of skeletons and the importance of vaccines. 

Dean tossed his clothes on the paper lined table with a snap of his wrist. “Okay, spit it out. You’ve been like this since those angels attacked on campus.” 

Sam’s lips pressed in a white line, the I-want-to-tell-you-something-but-you’re-probably-going-to-be-angry face. “I keep expecting to see you, but not you, you know?” 

It took a moment for Dean to process. Cas fluttered low and to the left, near Dean’s stomach. “You’re afraid Cas is going to pop up riding shotgun?” 

“Him, or Michael.” 

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Not going to happen. Impossible.” 

“You also thought your chest flutters weren’t an issue, look what happened there.” 

Dean started to respond when a nurse opened the door to take him to Radiology. She had a cute smile, wearing scrubs printed with bunnies, but he couldn’t bring up a smile for her.

“Take a deep breath and hold it,” said the assisting radiologist from behind a wall. 

Castiel froze in his chest for the x-ray. As Dean lay still under the lumbering, hovering machine, Sam’s words echoed around in his head like burrs in a bucket. Castiel, or Michael, a vessel was a vessel. 

Michael in the 1970’s model John Winchester was a memory that weighed on him like the lead blanket covering his lap. The archangel had leeched all the love out of his father’s face, a cold, demanding presence. Arrogant and absolute. He didn’t want that in him. 

Dean couldn’t help but wonder if there was a grain of truth in Sam’s fears. 

\---

Bobby was nose deep in a third cup of coffee and a pile of Islamic texts when one of the phones rang. The private line. That was usually for hunters needing help, or checking in with a job done. Once he had gotten a Russian salesman trying to sell him vacation property in New Zealand. After talking with Bobby, he had never called back. 

“Singer,” he answered. 

“Hey, Bobby,” said the voice on the other line, trying to sound easy-going, but failing. The chatter of clinking plates and a strong-voiced waitresses rang in the background. 

“What’s wrong, Rufus,” said Bobby. 

“You know those four kidnapped kids in Iowa you wanted me to check on my way back from Kentucky?” 

“Aw hell…” Bobby slumped in his wheelchair. He eyed the liquor cabinet that he’d probably be hitting after the call ended. “They dead?” 

“No, they’re still alive,” assured Rufus. “Some of them banged up and scared to hell, but alive. I managed to talk to one of the kids while doing the social services bit. Kid damn near squished the stuffing outta his bear.” Rufus described what the child had told him. 

Bobby took a breath, adding the information to the pile of crap he’d have to tell Sam and Dean when they got back. “Damn. Well, thanks, Rufus. This is important to know.” 

“Yeah, well, that ain’t all,” said Rufus. A plate clinked in the background and he said thanks. “Look, I’ve been listening around what’s left of the hunter’s gossip ring.” 

“So?” said Bobby. The rumor mill for hunters had been sparse ever since the Roadhouse was destroyed. Bobby’s connections and calls were the next best thing, but he couldn’t catch every whisper. 

“So what I’m hearing ain’t good, End of Days kinda stuff, and it involves your boys.” 

Bobby’s hackles went up. “That a threat?” 

“No,” insisted Rufus. “But you need to listen.” 

Bobby listened and then hung up. “Balls!” 

He thought long and hard if he wanted to open the liquor cabinet. He decided against it; not out of a need to rise above alcoholism, but because he needed to keep his head on straight in case things went to shit in a hurry. 

\---

Sheriff Mills and the Winchesters parted ways once they reached the city limits. The boys picked up sandwiches and fries on their way back, a huge sack of grease and good smells that they placed on the kitchen table when they got back to Bobby’s. Sam handed Bobby a heavy folder. It took ten exposures, front and back, at different angles to get a good enough view of all the Enochian on the inside of Dean’s ribs. 

Dean wanted to check himself with a Geiger counter. He felt like he’d been exposed to Chernobyl, invisible bits of radiation stuck in his bones. It couldn’t be that hard to make one, he’d made a EMF detector out of a walkman for Christ sake. 

Instead he went to the fridge and got a beer. 

Bobby held up the first film to the window. “Might take a while, but I think we can work with this.” 

“I’m thinking we make a printout of where Cas’s sigils are in relation to Gabriel’s,” said Sam. “See if they overlap in some way.” 

“Boys.” Bobby held out a hand, face stern and worried. “I got a call from Rufus while you were out. About the Iowa kids.” 

Sam’s face went slack. “They…?” 

“Everything okay?” asked Dean, putting down the bottle, still unopened. 

“Kids are alive, mostly. Two of them are in intensive care. One of their mother’s is half blind. Rufus got a description of the attack from David. Boy described an older guy with a bald head and a suit.” 

“Zachariah.” Dean’s gut twisted. Castiel sent out angry vibrations against his collarbones. 

Bobby nodded. “To top it off, he’d been asking the boy if he was saved by a man in a trench coat.” 

Dean’s hand went over his lower chest, fear chewing at his spine. He still remembered the stabbing, twisting pain of the stomach cancer Zachariah had inflicted upon him. For the douche bag angel to slum it with humans looking for Cas, he had to be desperate. 

Sam hands fisted at his sides as he leaned back on the kitchen counter. He sucked in his lips, huffing through his nose. “We need to get him out of you.” 

“I know that!” said Dean. He tapped at his sternum. “He knows that!” 

“Boys!” interrupted Bobby. “It’s not just the angel squad you need to worry about. You need to keep your guns up around other hunters now, too.” 

“What? Why?” asked Dean. 

“The rumor mill’s been spinning crap. Mostly about you two starting the apocalypse. But a lot of it is focusing on Sam, and some guys really want something to hunt.” Bobby nodded over to the taller brother. “I know you’ve already had some issues with a couple of hunters. Most of them wouldn’t be dumb enough to approach the two of you here, even with me chair-bound. But there are a few that are dumber than most.” 

Sam deflated; a wounded look on his face. His fists crossed his chest and he hunched over, as if trying to duck away from the sunlight, the same posture he had taken as a child when kids accused him of being a freak. Dean took a step closer to his brother, hand on his shoulder, face as still as a stone hiding a river of lava. No one would dare touch Sam. Not on his watch. 

“You got names?” said Dean. 

“Walt and Roy,” said Bobby. “I’ve already got ears out and I called Jody to keep watch for their license plates.” 

For the rest of the day the boys focused on copying the Enochian from the x-ray films. They had a firearm next to them at all times. They ate the sandwiches and fries cold, their appetites not fit for much else. While Dean copied down Enochian, his mind sometimes wandered to how he would kill anyone that came near Sam. After five minutes of his mind stewing in premeditate murder, he had to go outside. 

Dean kept his gun as he walked amongst the piles of scrap, staying close to the house. But the need to lash out grew in him, something physical that mirrored the way Castiel simmered under his sternum. He swung out an arm, aiming for the trunk of an old green Honda. The impact should have broken a knuckle or two, instead he left a fist sized dent three inches deep into the metal frame. 

Dean should be worried about his strength, about what he was becoming, but he pushed it down and out of mind along with his anger and went back in the house to work. 

\---

At the lake, Castiel sat on the dock, suddenly weary. The strength that Dean had used to punch the car had been pulled from him involuntarily. How much more would be lost by the time he escaped Dean’s body? _If_ he could escape. 

\---

Dean took the cot while Sam slept in the bed. There was a second bedroom with a full bed, but he didn’t want to leave Sam alone. He brushed his knuckles up the riffle grip by the cot, loaded and ready. He had questions for Castiel, wanted to talk and wanted a moment of peace even if it was in dreams, but he stayed awake, listening to Sam breathe. 

Castiel was buried deep, still as a stone in a rushing river. If Dean could quiet his mind, reach out to that stillness, he would find sleep so easily. 

Strange, at first he had thought of Castiel’s presence in his body as an intrusion, an violation. Which, yeah, it was. But he had found peace in it. Sometimes Castiel felt like a firefly bouncing around a bucket. Other times he felt like a maelstrom straining against a net. Dean felt like something other than a hollow bastard. Warm. 

The warmth drifted deeper, siren calling him to rest. 

Sam’s chest hitched, an exhale cracking into a whimper. 

Dean looked over, seeing Sam’s forehead crinkle into stress lines. “Sammy?” he whispered. 

Sam sucked in a wavering breath, shoulders shaking as he turned onto his side. And Dean knew that posture. The same nightmare laden dreams Sam had after Famine as blood and self loathing burned out of his head. Sam turned again, shoving the sheet to his waist. 

“N-no… dad,” begged Sam. “Please.” 

“Sam.” Dean was at Sam’s side at once, shaking his shoulder. “Hey, Sammy! Wake up.” 

Sam’s eyes fluttered open, taking a moment to adjust to where he was. “What?” 

“You were having a nightmare,” said Dean. He turned on the lamp, making Sam cringe at the sudden light. “Thought you were doing okay?” 

“I’m fine,” said Sam. 

Dean gave him a look of “are you kidding me?” 

Sam sighed and sat up, his t-shirt bunching around his drooping shoulders. “Its usually not this bad.” 

_Not this bad? What the hell?_ “How long has this been going on?” 

Sam shrugged, not looking Dean in the face. “Been getting dreams of Lucifer ever since he popped the box. They tapered off but ever since Famine things have gotten worse. Not always Lucifer, but remembering the shakes, the hallucinations. It was all so real and I can’t stop think about them.” Sam’s face crumpled, eyes shiny in the lamplight. “It’s whining, but I can’t help but think why me? Hunters, demons, the blood, my whole damn existence.” 

Dean rubbed at his brother’s shoulder, getting Sam to look at him. “Sam, the world might be pinning a lot of shit on you, but you’re better than that. You’re better than what they think you are. Nothing they say can change the fact that you’ve saved people.” 

“And damned the whole human race.” Sam grimaced, rubbing his eyes. “You’re lucky, Dean. You have an angel to watch over your dreams. I have Lucifer breathing down my neck. It might be weird, damn fucking awkward, but I’m jealous of what you have with Cas. Even if it is some weird “Innerspace” shit.” 

Cas moved to the front of Dean’s ribcage, heat bubbling under the rib arc, as if trying to reach out to the younger brother. 

“If I gotta be Martin Short, than that makes you Meg Ryan,” said Dean. 

It worked, it got Sam to smile. “So Cas is Dennis Quaid?” 

“Meh. Better he and I switch.” Dean cleared his throat. “He cares about you too, you know? He’d do for you exactly what he’s doing for me in a heartbeat, even if it wasn’t his choice.” 

“Okay, as weird as that was, thanks.” 

Dean clapped him on the shoulder, hauling up as much confidence in his words as he could. “We’ll figure this out tomorrow.” 

Sam pulled his sheet back up and burrowed himself in the bed. Once his breath evened out, Dean dropped the hopeful smile. 

\---

Castiel folded his legs underneath his body as he braided three lengths of grass. Manipulation, creation, these were human things that he should practice. Dean dropped down next to him. 

“You are right. I would do the same for Sam,” said Castiel. 

“Guess we got another thing in common,” said Dean, voice a low, miserable rumble. “Hunted by the people we’re trying to help.” 

“In my limited experience,” said Castiel. “If the world is out to get you, it means you are doing something right.”

“That’s one way of seeing it.” Dean snorted. “You heard what we were talking about? About Iowa?” 

Castiel nodded, face grim. 

“Why is Zachariah gunning for you?” asked Dean. “I know he wanted to take you off the board, but it seems like he has a goon squad out for you personally.” 

Castiel paused his braiding, hesitant. He let the grass go, the strands unraveling in his palm like a living thing. “I told you I had an altercation with Zachariah before flying to Bangkok.” 

Dean nodded. “I remember.” 

Castiel took a breath. He took no joy in fighting his brothers and sisters; and talking about it made the shame all the more real, even though he was doing it for a cause he believed in. A man he believed in. “It was more than a few angels after me. A dozen, some from my own garrison had tracked me, led by Zachariah. I fought and wounded Zachariah’s wings in front of his subordinates.” 

Dean whistled appreciatively. “That’d piss him off.” 

“It wasn’t a mortal wound, obviously, but enough to hurt his pride. And he has, if nothing else, pride.” 

“And he wants to make an example of you?” 

“An angel supposedly brought back to existence by God that wounded an angel of a higher order and preached against the apocalypse would spread disharmony amongst the Host. He’s afraid others will believe me over him and the authority of Heaven.” Castiel’s wings fluttered, restless. “I’m getting very tired of having to fight those I once trusted.” 

“And I’m tired of everyone trying to convince me my destiny is to be an angel condom.” Dean gestured to the lake and pillars in the sky. “ _This_ is weird enough, I don’t want to know what’ll happen if Michael finds a way into my head.” 

“He can’t.” 

Dean tore up brown blades of grass from the earth, the edges dry and sharp. “Damn right, because the day I say yes to that bastard I’ll—” 

“No. The grace of two angels cannot coexist within one vessel, even if it was compatible with both angels.” 

Dean paused. “You mean as long as you’re in here, even if I said yes, Michael can’t get in.” 

“Not without taking me out first.” 

“Can he do that?” 

“He is an archangel. And I have been pulled from a vessel before, though that took the effort of many.” And had done great harm to Jimmy. He remembered the man’s panic after being pulled from his half-sleep as Castiel had been ripped out of his body. His grace had burned, raw to Heaven’s devices. “The process would most likely be painful for us both.” 

“Then let’s try to avoid that,” said Dean. “Zachariah can’t sense you in me, can he?” 

“No. As long as they remain intact, my sigils hide both you and me from his angelic gaze. Strangely, this is probably the safest place from other angels.” Castiel peered at the lake, the water level had dipped again. How long before it was dry? “The reversal of our situation is strange.” 

“Reversal?” Dean pursed his lips, puzzled, and then shocked. “When the hell was I ever inside you?” 

“Hell, actually. I had to carry your soul inside my grace, else you might have been torn from my grasp.” 

“Oh.” Dean stilled, gaze dropping to Castiel’s chest. “How… did I fit? I can’t imagine you hauling a soul in there.” 

Castiel’s wings puffed up, as if trying to imitate their true size within the limits of the ribcage. “I wasn’t within my vessel at the time of your raising. In my true form I am approximately the size of New York’s Chrysler Building.” 

Dean rubbed at his chest. “I don’t remember that.” 

“You wouldn’t have. While inside, your soul had been fearful, shaking, in some ways blind and deaf. But you were a warm weight.” Castiel went on, mirroring Dean’s action, a hand to his chest, remembering. Longing. “After being in battle for so long, the retreat had been a relief. It was the first time my grace had been touched by human hands. I sometimes wonder if that was the turning point for me in choosing humanity over Heaven.” 

“Lot of shit goes down for people that meet me.” Dean sneered at himself. 

“Then I am glad, because if not for you I would still be a “dick with wings“.” Castiel’s stood, wings arced upwards and then fanned on either side of his shoulders in a curled shape, as if cradling something between then. 

“Urk!” Dean clutched at his chest again, cheeks flushed, biting his bottom lip. “Damn it, Cas. That ain’t fair.” 

“What?” 

“When you move them like that I--” Dean looked lost for a moment. “It tickles.” 

Did it?

Castiel flapped them again, stretching out the primaries to brush against the arcs of bone, the down nearest his body fluttering and causing tiny whirlwinds, snapping at the hem of his trench coat and twisting around his tie. 

Dean, trying to get up, curled around his chest, breath hitching. “D-damn it! Ca-ha-ha, haa!” 

Flap, flap flap! 

“Gah! St-stah-ha-ha-op!” The hunter’s voice cracked as he laughed, attempting to find his feet. 

Castiel didn’t want to stop, he wanted Dean to keep laughing, keep smiling. And what a laugh it was. Castiel smiled too. 

Desperate, Dean dragged his body to his feet and grabbed one of the wings, holding the angel still. Castiel froze, the touch terrifyingly new. He turned to Dean, face to face, chests inches apart. Laughter still lingered around Dean’s green eyes, tugging his mouth up into a plush smile. A moment of joy. 

Dean’s expression melted to hesitant puzzlement. “Cas? What are we doing here?” 

“Standing.” The hand on Castiel’s wing buried its fingers under the down, sparking like lightening, making him swallow hard. He wanted more of this touch. Craved it like he once craved burgers that would weigh him down. 

“This close?” said Dean. 

“I’ve been told I have issues with personal space.” 

“I know.” 

Dean leaned in, his hand trailing against the feathers on Castiel’s wing until he touched the angel’s shoulder. Mirroring him, Castiel’s hand did the same, resting on the jacket above the hand shaped scar left on Dean after Hell. He felt a moment of pride, possession. This was something he saved, that belonged to him. Pulling forward, the wings arched around Dean, framing him in feathers. He inched forward, feeling Dean’s breath against his face, tasting the moisture on his lips. 

Dean leaned back, face shuttered, laughter gone and replaced with bitterness. “Angels gunning for us, hunters on the hunt for Sam, and I’m dreaming about…” He stepped back, bumping into the wings. Cas parted them, letting Dean go. 

Arms crossed, Dean stalked to the dock, his feet thumping hollow on the wood. “I’d ask what the hell is wrong with me, but that’d be answering the damn question.” 

Cas folded his wings close, slow enough to not cause a ripple in the air. He had crossed a line. Another human thing he messed up on. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t say sorry. You didn’t even know what you were doing,” snapped Dean. He sighed and turned back. “We fix this, you gonna go back on your God hunt again?” 

“I did know--” Cas cut himself off. This was another of those things he wasn’t supposed to share. He had known exactly what he was doing, showing his affection, his passion, his… lust. He had that now; pulling at him as Dean’s heartbeat echoed against his grace. But Dean didn’t want to hear that. 

Cas put his hand in the trench pocket again, rubbing the horned amulet like nuns do rosaries. “I want to continue my search. Sometimes I felt close to finding Him. I can’t stop now.” 

“You think the amulet’ll work in here?” 

Cas nodded. “The presence of God cannot be masked by flesh and bone.” Though many other things could, like him, like what he felt and knew Dean felt. 

“Good, sooner you finish sooner I can get my necklace back.” 

Another smile would not happen that night.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, the Bobby and the brothers nixed lunch, getting by with crackers and peanut butter as they went over the x-ray films thrice over. By mid afternoon Bobby rolled out a long sheet on the desk, the Enochian written out in the shape of an opened and flattened ribcage one each side; one side for the sigils keeping Castiel stuck, the other side keeping Dean hidden. Sam and Dean gathered round with a beer each. Dean’s was half gone, Sam’s was barely touched. 

Letting the cool drink slip down his throat, Dean wondered if him getting drunk would make Cas drunk. If he wanted a quiet drink with the angel anytime soon, this was probably the closest he would get. 

“From what I can figure this works a bit like a demon circle. Break the right symbol and the whole thing goes down,” said Bobby. “Sorry son, but it looks like we need to get a little rough with your ribs.” 

“If they can stay broken,” said Dean. He took a fast pull from his beer, trying to get comfortable on his seat as his felt a constant ripple from inside. Cas had been more agitated as of late, like a tiger pacing his cage. “I’m Wolverine; I broke my ribs twice since Cas dropped in. Healed within seconds. How can we break him out if the prison don’t stay broke?” 

“If I had all the answers would I be stuck here, boy.” A phone went off in the kitchen and Bobby went to it muttering. Dean almost felt sorry for the poor sod calling. He hoped it was Sheriff Mills, she usually soothed the cantankerous man. 

Sam wiped the condensation off his beer, flicking the drops to the floor. “What about the ghoul hand? It was made of unholy metal, right. That’s what punctured the lining in Cas’ cage in the first place.” 

“Yeah.” Dean nodded along. “You’re thinking if it could break the lining it might be enough to break the sigils?” 

“It might. But we need to make sure it breaks just the sigils keeping Cas inside, and not the ones keeping you hidden from angels.” 

Dean’s breath hitched as a strong flutter went through his lungs, making him fumble his beer and spill it over his hand. “Damn it!” 

“Cas?” asked Sam. 

“Yeah. He’s been moving a lot lately. Like I can’t get a moment of peace without feeling him kick.” Dean wiped his hand on his jean leg, feeling a nuzzle of apology against his collarbone. First time in a while he indulged in a beer, and he needed it after last night. He could still feel Castiel’s wings drawing around him, trying to pull him closer even though they were already as friggin’ close as they could be. The angel was literally inside his body; intimacy doesn‘t get much more intimate that that. “Starting to sympathize with pregnant women.” 

“Feeling him more… is that a good thing?” asked Sam, brow furrowing into worry. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, is he moving more frequently, or does the moving feel stronger?” 

“Stronger. A lot stronger. Why?” 

“I keep thinking of the cage as a plastic bag with a goldfish inside.” Sam held up his hands when Dean opened his mouth to argue. “Hear me out. When the water is as full as it can get in the bag and it’s sealed, it’s taut. There’s so much pressure keeping the water in you don’t feel much of what’s going on inside with the goldfish. But take a little water out of the bag with a hole, and you can feel the goldfish moving more.” 

“That’s assuming there’s a leak in the cage,” said Dean. 

“With the way you’ve been healing lately and your strength, it’s possible.” 

Dean arched his back, stretching his shoulders with a huff. “And Cas might not have enough mojo to get out. We don’t get water back in the bag the goldfish is gonna die.”

“Does he need more rest?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Bobby wheeled in, more grim-faced than usual. 

“Bad?” asked Sam. 

“Whatever we need to do, we need to do it fast,” said Bobby. “Another call from Rufus. Two more people with their eyes burnt out, one of them a hunter.” 

Which meant more reason for other hunters to seek the Winchesters out and take their aggressions out on them. Sam’s grip on his bottle of Coors tightened, the wet label peeling under his fingers. He reached out to the rifle leaning against the chair. Dean patted the sawed off on the table. Like being circled by sharks while wearing chum necklaces; they took comfort in their firearms like divers took comfort in cages. 

Dean took another book unread book off the pile. “Cas if you’ve got any bright ideas, now would be the time to say something.” 

Castiel was still. 

Sheriff Jody Mills’ arrival an hour later lifted their spirit’s a little. As did the hamburger helper; steaming beef stroganoff with extra pasta and broccoli. Instead of eating in the kitchen they took their bowls into the living room and took bites in between flipping pages and scrolling through the web. Jody, not knowing the specifics of what they were looking for, and cautious enough not to ask, called back to the station frequently for updates. 

It was dusk when Jody collected the bowls and set up for dishwashing. Sam, eyes needing a break from the computer screen, joined her, taking up a towel and drying the plates collected over the day as she washed. Lemony bubbles foamed up her forearms. 

“You doing okay?” he asked. 

“Okay is one word for it,” said Jody, scrubbing hard at a dry smear of egg on a pan. “Wish I could do more to help, but I guess it would go over my head.” 

“You’re doing plenty, trust me.” They didn’t know how Jody would take knowing there was an angel trapped inside Dean. Perhaps once this was over they could tell her, one more tall tale. “Keeping an eye out for us is something we need. And the angel crap is enough to make anyone’s head spin. You’re probably better off not knowing.” 

Dean cracked his back in the living room and then made out for the garage. They all needed to give their eyes a rest, but Bobby kept going. 

Sheriff Mills smiled, pan egg-free and giving it a once over with a Brillo pad. “So, _angels_?” 

Sam nodded, rubbing at a chip in one of the glazed coffee mugs. “Yep. And not the fluffy kinds either.” 

“Still trying to wrap my head around a lot of hunter things. Singer already gave me the basics; demons, vampires, werewolves. Wendigos were a surprise. I thought those were more like Bigfoot.” 

“Bigfoot isn’t real. And Wendigos are real nasty. Keep a flamethrower handy.” The next mug had a crack along the side. 

“Yeah, I can just pick that up at Wal-Mart on my way back,” said Jody in a sarcastic drawl. “This might be a little too much “Chariots of the Gods”, but does that mean that Thunderbirds and all those ancient UFO sightings of bright lights and stuff were actually angels?” 

“Thunderbirds?” said Sam. 

“Yeah,” said Jody. “Thunderbirds. Fierce bird creatures of Ojibwa and Lakota legends; wing beats of thunder and lightning. Servants of the Great Spirit. You think those were angels walking around earth?” 

“Huh?” Sam sucked in his lips, a question forming. “Hey, Bobby?” 

\---

Dean took the evening tuning up the impala. There had been a rattle in the grill that wasn’t the legos, and he wanted to check out before it became anything worse. With their luck the engine would fall out while trying to get away from hunters. 

He waved Sheriff Mills goodbye, putting in an extra wave for Castiel. He was sure the angel would like the woman if he ever met her in the flesh. Well, in his own flesh. 

The sawed off lay by the tool case within reach. If the gun didn’t take out any attackers, a wrench to the face would do just fine. It felt good to get his hands dirty with something other than ashes or blood. He felt content, and for some reason Cas mirrored the contentment, giving small flutters in the base of his stomach like a roller coaster going over the edge. 

Dean was starting to get used to the feeling. He was getting used to a lot of things about Cas. The way he talked, his intense stare. And that moment when it felt like they were going to kiss…

_He didn’t know what he was doing_ , Dean tried to convince himself. _Probably reenacting something he saw at the brothel or during a trip to Thailand or some shit. He’s trying to figure out what being human is going to be like when he doesn’t need to know. We’re not going to let him fall that far._

But 2014 Cas had fallen so far he was banging gongs and taking shots left and right. 

All it took was one touch in hell and Cas was bound to fall. The angel might have washed away the scars that marred Dean’s body, but he couldn’t wash away the corruption, the memories, the filth, the feel of a scalpel in his hand. There was still a hollow ache in Dean’s core and the only thing that kept him from stewing in Famine’s too true words was the occasional flutter Cas gave. 

His body was a cage, for both Cas and him. 

A knock on the garage door. Dean’s hand went for the gun before Sam called his name. 

“Hey, Dean?” Sam looked hesitant, as if knowing something and not knowing how to share it. 

Dean relaxed on the sawed off and wiped his hands on a rag, leaning against the Impala’s grill. “Yeah?” 

“Can I ask Cas a few questions?” 

“Uh, gonna be kinda hard to hear an answer from him.” 

“All I need is a yes or no. Can you figure that out?” 

Castiel tapped at Dean’s lower left rib, floating around the area of his stomach. The angel was willing at least. “I think I can feel for a yes or no.” 

“Okay.” Sam looked down at Dean’s chest, t-shirt wet with sweat and a line of grease smudged from collarbone to stomach. “Uh, Cas…” 

Dean lifted his eyebrows. Could this get any more awkward? He looked down at his chest as well. “Go on.” 

“Did angels visit North American pre-1700s?” 

The hell kind of question was that? 

Castiel gradually bobbed in affirmation, like a slow lick. “I think that’s a yes.” 

“Think?” 

Castiel bobbed again, deeper then before, making Dean suck his belly in from the tickling sensation. “Okay, that’s a definite yes.” 

“Good. Cas, did any of the angels interact with, or get seen by Native Americans at the time?” 

The bobbing was slower. “Yes, but unsure,” said Dean. “Should I shake myself like a magic-8 ball?” 

“Were they known to the people as Thunderbirds?” Sam continued. 

One short dip. “Yeah…?” 

Sam’s face split in a grin. “Then I think we got something to help Cas!” 

\---

“A Thunderbird nest?” Dean smoothed out a page in an illustrated book of a large bird landing on the edge of a mountain. Cas sent flutters that radiated up to Dean’s shoulders, making his back twitch. 

“Yep.” Bobby pulled out a stack of printouts that still had ink smeared on them. His printer was in desperate need of ink, but it got the whole online journal printed out. “Jody had the idea. Back when angels walked the earth other cultures didn’t call them angels. Kinda hard to figure it out in the first place since most of the lore was never written down, just passed on in oral history. What was written came from missionary accounts when trying to convert the natives.” 

Castiel shoved at Dean’s chest. “You definitely got Cas’ attention. Then what?” 

Sam flipped around a page he had highlighted. “Missionaries back then, if they weren’t hunters, usually thought supernatural happenings came from demons or shaman magic. But look here at this description. Bright white lightning streaking the sky, a ringing noise like thunder. These aren’t demons they’re describing, its angels.” 

Dean ignored the harder shove from inside. “So angels visited and… what? Nested?” 

“According to the journal,” said Bobby. “A tribal shaman, half blind, warned away the missionary from a place they called the “Thunderbird Nest“; a place where Thunderbirds gathered to talk to the Great Spirit and gain power for their lightning bolts.” 

“To top it off,” said Sam. “The shaman said he once searched out the nest and encountered a Thunderbird, but leaving him with one eye and the ability to talk to spirits.” 

“So it’s an angel recharge station?” Castiel spun faster, squirming like a child in class that knew the answer but couldn’t raise his hand. 

“Sounds like it.” Bobby flipped open a road atlas marked with post-its. “Only one we could find so far is in Southern Alberta along the Rocky Mountains. If you can get up there we’re thinking Cas can soak up some mojo to get a leg up outta you.” 

“We got a rusty ass hand of an unholy ghoul and a potential angel nest. I think we got a plan,” said Dean, rubbing at his chest. “And Cas seems to think it’s a good one. Leave in the morning?” 

Sam looked hesitant. “Bobby, what about you? What if Walt and Roy come by?” 

Dean hadn’t even thought about that. “Yeah, most hunters know if they want to get us they gotta get through you.” 

“I can still shoot, idjits. I’ll be fine,” said Bobby. “Phones need to be manned and if the heat comes down I got Sheriff Mills on speed-dial. If this stunt works, you find a way to bring back some Canadian beer.”

Dean grinned, the first genuine grin in a long time. “We’ll bring back and keg and a dozen Kinder Eggs.” 

\---

Having an angel inside you should be a cure for insomniacs, because within minutes of putting his head on the pillow, Dean was back at the lake. The shoreline had receded again, the last legs of the dock resting in a few inches of water. Cas stood on the bared rocks, trench coat on and back straight, looking at the pillars in the sky. They looked more solid, more like living bone. His wings arced out, as if trying to soak up the light. 

“It’s a grace circle,” said Castiel. 

Dean hopped down from the dock, pebbles crunching under his boots. “What’s a grace circle?” 

“A place where many angels congregated when the world was new. Sometimes, those angels assigned to watch over humanity would meet there to seek revelation and receive orders. Pieces of home for those stationed on earth.” Cas held up the amulet, the cord biting into his fingers. “I hadn’t even considered it before now.” 

“Will it help your mojo so we can get you outta here?” 

Castiel’s jaw clenched, wings folded halfway. “I don’t know how effective it will be as a restorative. It has been so long since it had been used. But it couldn’t hurt.” 

“What about other angels? Should we expect company?” 

“I doubt it. Even I didn’t remember their existence until it was mentioned.” 

Dean gestured to the amulet. “You wanna check out the place out for God before we get cracking?” He winced at the phrase. It was his ribs that were going to get the cracking. 

“It’s just a hope.” Cas bowed his head, worry in his eyes. His wings closed completely against his back, the primary feathers brushing the dirt off a few pebbles. “I fear what will happen if you break the protections on your body while trying to free me.” 

Dean picked up a few pebbles, weighing them in his hands and testing their smoothness. “I’ve been thinking about that too. How well do you think you could stand another banishing spell?” 

Cas hissed in a breath. “As I am now, not well,” he admitted. “You hope to have a banishing sigil ready in case they find you before I can escape?” 

“Just in case.” Dean flung the stone to the water’s surface. It bounced twice. “If I’m the one that sets up the sigil, will you be okay?” 

“I should be fine.” Cas frowned, looking down at his hands as if they held the answer. “The likelihood the parameters of the sigil recognizing me as not part of your body is slim.” 

“But there’s still a chance it could shred you,” said Dean. “We can carve some angel-proofing symbols into the trees, but it would help to have a backup. We got angels going after hunters now. We’re gonna need the firepower, unless you got another angel blade handy?” 

“Just my own.” Cas let the blade fall from his sleeve into his palm, leaving a cold streak in Dean’s belly. “If Zachariah is that reckless, it could be that some angels have already defected.” 

Dean weighed the next stone, and then paused. “You mean we might have a few more halos on our side?” 

“Not necessarily on our side. But not on his.” Cas flipped the blade around his palm, hand idle, needing action, the slicing motion making cold flicker in Dean’s belly. “And that could help.” 

“Any way to tell if they’re Allies or Axis powers?” 

“I would have to talk to them directly. I would be wary of any that approached you or Sam. There are very few of my brethren I trust right now. If she were still alive I would say Anna…” 

Dean’s jaw clenched at the memory. She hadn’t started out bad; she was a comrade, a partner in the trenches until Heaven reprogrammed her into a Glenn Close reject. He flicked another stone; three skips. “Anyone else?” 

“None that come to mind.” Castiel sighed, slipping the blade back up his sleeve as if it were no more substantial than a breath. “As it is in Heaven, so shall it be on earth.” 

It took a moment for that last phrase to parse for Dean. “In other words, you weren’t very sociable in Heaven.” 

“That is true,” said Castiel, rolling back his shoulders, his wings ruffling. “And if it doesn’t work…” 

“It’ll work,” said Dean, earnest, and then forced a laugh as he launched another rock. Two skips. “You’ll see. And remember, I promised you wouldn‘t die a virgin? Gotta stick around for that experience.” 

Cas caught Dean’s hand before he tossed the last rock, making the smooth edges press into his palm. His eyes bore into Dean’s as he stepped forward, back into that same space where they nearly kissed. There was no desperate heat this time, but the angel still looked earnest, vulnerable. Dean swallowed hard. 

“If it doesn’t work and I fade,” said Castiel, grinding out the words in a low timbre that made Dean’s breath churn. “You will temporarily have the grace of a seraphim. Use it wisely.” 

Dean nodded and the dream ended. When he woke up and threw back the sheets, a smoothed pebble fell to the old carpet. Dean, gathering last minute things for the road, didn’t notice. 

\---

The Winchesters left at daybreak, taking a Ziploc bag of Bobby’s cornbread with them. Time not on their side, they decided to drive straight through, stopping only to switch drivers, relieve themselves, refuel, and cool the engine. They made good time, sleeping in shifts to keep alert on the road. They called back to Bobby every five hours, 

When Dean slept, lulled by the rocking of the car and the purr of the engine, Cas taught him more sigils. There were no last words, no reminiscing, just instruction, memorization. Ones to block angels, one to warn of an angel’s coming, another for blocking the power of a demon. When he woke, Dean would draw out the sigils in the journal. The back pages were becoming an encyclopedia of Enochian magic. 

Across the Canadian border, they got a carton of white and red Kinder Eggs at a gas stop. Jumping the gun, but Dean figured if shit went down at least they had toy and chocolate Kinder Eggs to smuggle across the border. Sam, shaking one of the foil wrapped confections as he picked up a coffee for his leg of the drive, chuckled. 

“What?” asked Dean, adding a package of cinnamon candies. 

“Just thinking of the parallels between you and the eggs.” Sam shook the egg again. 

Dean put the egg back in the carton with a grumble. “I’m a helluva lot better than a chocolate shell.” 

Fifty miles north of Regina, Saskatchewan, the sun had set and the hilly horizon was bled to gray. Dean woke, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders in the warm passenger seat. Then he heard the music playing. 

Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his pie hole. That was the rule. But somehow Sam found “You’ll Be in My Heart” by Phil Collins on the radio. 

“We are switching at the next rest stop,” growled Dean. 

Sam smiled. Dean let him. 

\---

Dean took the last leg of the drive, maneuvering the Impala slow and easy along the mountain roads. They had reached the mountains in twenty hours, but the narrow roads encouraged caution and slowness. The area was nearly untouched by civilization, or if it had been, nature had shrugged it off like a dog does bathwater. Trees lined the sides of the road, their thick roots sometimes sticking out into the road, making the car bump and dip. Dean hissed, thinking about his poor baby’s suspension. 

Road eventually turned to gravel, then dirt. The map they printed out at Bobby’s indicated that the “nest” wasn’t connected to any road. When the dirt road became too choked with weeds to continue, they parked and got out. They would have to hike. 

“We got a general direction,” said Sam, holding out the map in the pre-dawn light. “I don’t suppose Cas could give us some guidance?” 

Dean tapped at his sternum. “Think you can play compass for us?” 

Cas tapped back to Dean’s left, leading out into the forest. Dean hefted his duffle. “Then let’s go, Lassie.” 

They let Castiel’s gentle shoves and taps lead them. Being smacked in the face with the local flora and having to hack their way through bushes was less then fun. Sam took the hiking well, his limp almost completely gone. An hour later, they reached a small clearing circled with large boulders. Combination fairy circle and Stonehenge. Dean stopped as a shivering ripple went up his spine. 

“This it?” asked Sam. 

“Yeah,” said Dean, shrugging off the duffel. “I would have figure it’d be more… angely.” 

“You expected white lights and unicorns?” 

“Shut up.” 

The Winchesters carved every tree around the clearing with the sigils Dean had learned on the trip up. Tapping the edge of his knife on the bark, Dean contemplated carving their initials . One last sign of “the Winchesters were here” in case shit went down. When the all the trees looked like they were artistically slashed at by Wolverine, Sam met him back in the middle of the clearing with the hex box holding the ghoul hand and a first aid kit. 

Sam rubbed at the rusty hand with rubbing alcohol, rag slowly turning orange. “This works, first thing we do is get you a tetanus shot.” 

Dean grimaced at the sharp finger being polished to a shine. “Dude, you rub away at it any harder it’s going to fall apart.” 

Sam ignored him. Dean stood by a low, flat stone. It would do. He made a cut in his arm, just below the wrist, and drew the angel banishing sigil. All they needed was a bloody palm to send away any angels that dropped by. Dean prayed they wouldn’t have to use it. Cas hadn’t admitted it, but Dean was pretty sure the angel wouldn’t survive another banishing. 

“Is Cas ready?” asked Sam. 

\---

Castiel stood in the deepest part of the lake, the water barely going up to his thighs. While the water level wasn’t rising, it wasn’t getting any shallower. The grace circle gave him that at least. Its potency watered down due to disuse. Whether he would survive the process of escape was doubtful. 

He gripped the amulet in his hand tight. There had been no light, no burning from the amulet to indicate the presence of God. But he could still hope. Stranger things had happened, like coming back from the dead after being smote by the archangel Raphael. 

Hearing Sam’s question, Cas looked up and brushed his wings against the ribs above. 

\---

“Feels like it.” Dean laid out a blanket on the ground next to the rock and then slipped off his belt. If he was going to deal with a broken rib for a while he’d rather be laying down. He pulled up his t-shirt and Sam took a marker to put a small x on Dean’s left flank, away from vital organs and, if the print out was right, on one of the sigils keeping Cas in, not one keeping Dean hidden. Sam followed up with an alcohol swab to the area. 

Sam lined up the sharp edge of the metal hand to his skin. A five by five inch piece of wood board went over it. Holding it in place, Sam took out a hammer from the duffel. The idea was to hit the board with the hammer and the board would drive the metal tip home, saving Dean‘s torso the potential abuse from an imprecise hammer. It didn’t have to go far, just enough to go through muscle and touch a rib, barely more than an inch. 

“Are _you_ ready?” asked Sam, raising the hammer. 

“Let’s hope this works.” Dean nodded, placing the belt between his teeth, bracing himself. 

The first aid kit was next to them, the banishing symbol within reach. They couldn’t be more prepared. Sam let the hammer fall, hitting the board and driving the metal finger in to hit bone. 

The rib broke. 

Dean yelled around the belt, grabbing at his side as his chest heaved, bone crunching under his flesh. “Faaaaaa…” 

Sam took off the board but kept the hand in place. The wound had to stay or they risked the cage healing back up around Cas. “Is it working?” 

Dean spat out the belt. “The fuck should I know?” 

Castiel’s warmth wavered, then surged, pushing against the wounded area from the inside. Was he going to try and get out through the wound itself? Dean shivered, a feverish hot flash running along his body. 

Dean hissed. “Well, something’s going on.” 

Then Cas froze. 

“C’mon, dammit!” swore Dean. 

“You can do this, Cas,” said Sam, keeping Dean pinned to the ground. 

A ringing noise whined in his ear, making it hard for Dean to focus on the sensations going on in his ribcage, but he distinctly felt a cold slash. Cas getting out his knife. To widen the wound? 

A light flared to the brothers’ left. One of the sigils on the trees lit up and then sizzled through the wood. The warning sigil. Incoming angels. As careful as they had been, they still had broken one of Dean’s protections. 

“Cas, we don’t got a lot of time!” Dean heaved in a breath and forced himself to stay still. He eyed the banishing sigil above him. Just a few more minutes. 

Sam grimaced. “Is that noise Cas?” 

Dean looked up. Sam was hearing it too? 

As the ringing noise rose in pitch, the ground around them shook. The trees, as if made of balsa wood, cracked, their carvings rendered useless. 

“Shit!” Dean looked up at the banishing sigil. The rock split down the middle, breaking the sigil; useless. Stone fragments rained down on them. Sam tossed away the metal hand, the tip of the finger withdrawing with a slick noise, and the hauled Dean to his feet, keeping one hand on the wound. Trees tumbled down , the brothers sidestepping chunks of lumber as they ran. They had to get out of there fast. Or reach another stone to draw the banishing sigil. 

Castiel still burned in Dean’s side, the warmth condensing into a candle flicker worming its way through the thin membrane keeping him trapped. Sam and Dean reached another rock, this one not nearly as smooth. Sam cut his palm, smearing the blood in wide streaks. Dean used the wound in his side. It was a race to finish the sigil first. Banish the bastards and then get the hell out of there, even if it meant hurting Cas. Cas was a soldier, he would understand the sacrifice; encourage it even. 

But when Dean finished first, he hesitated, his hand hovering an inch away from the sigil. 

That hesitation was enough. 

A force hit the boys from the side, knocking Sam to the ground. An angel, stone faced and dressed in a gray suit, held Dean by the collar. 

Warmth ran back through Dean’s veins and he used it, gripping the angel’s arm and nearly pulling it out of its socket with borrowed strength. The angel’s wings snapped down and they were gone. 

\---

Castiel tried to push himself through the gap in the prison, panting, trying to keep the wound open with his knife. But flesh and magic were stronger than the weakened angel. Every second away from the tainted metal was another second that the wound healed over, taking what little strength Castiel had left. Stripping him down to a graceless body. 

If Castiel left Dean now, there wouldn’t be anything left to fight on. He pulled back, drawing in what was left of his grace. Castiel stood in barely a foot of water, the grass and trees around the lake dry and brown. He could only hope he could be of use against whoever had caught them. 

Dean had been rendered unconscious; a dreamless sleep away from Cas. Perhaps that was better because he couldn’t face Dean after his failure. Just a little faster, a little stronger… 

He felt Dean’s body land. A presence permeated through flesh like a bad smell. Castiel drew his grace in tighter, and stood as still as he could. He dare not be noticed. Only one angel had this kind of power that radiated bleaching arrogance.

Zachariah.


	6. Chapter 6

For once, Bobby wished he had connected the phones to a GPS program telling him where the calls were coming from. Walt was on the line and Bobby wanted to know if he needed to get his gun loaded with birdshot or buckshot. He had checked in with Sheriff Mills just an hour ago, no sign of Walt or Roy, but the call had to mean they were close or on their way. 

“I’m telling ya, they ain’t here,” said Bobby, smacking the kitchen table, wishing he could wring the dumbass hunter’s neck. “And if they were, you wouldn’t be welcome. I know you got beef with them, but you’ll not bring it down on my property, ya hear?” 

“We don’t want trouble with you, Singer,” said Walt, wheedling and trying to play the better man. “You’re a good man. If you could just tell us where they went—“

“And that ain’t happening neither!” snapped Bobby. “Why don’t you take those guns of yours and point them at the real monsters, the ones hurting people.” 

Walt was quiet for a second, fuming. “You’re too close to those boys to see what they are. Especially that demon spawn Sam Winchester.” 

That got Bobby snarling, voice lowering to a timber that made most hunters turn tail. “The only thing you two are gonna get close to is the wrong end of my gun if I see either of you!” 

Bobby slammed the receiver down. Damn if he didn’t make a few enemies among the hunter community for that outburst, but no one was going to harm his boys as long as he was alive, if not kicking. 

The phone rang again, the private line. If it was Walt or Roy…

Bobby picked it up. “Singer.” 

Sam, breathless, panted out on the other side of the line. “Bobby…” 

The old hunter knew that tone. His stomach dropped to his shoes, fury giving way to worry. “What happened, son?” 

Sam huffed, as if talking while running. “Angels… they got Dean. We tried to get Cas out… but it wasn’t enough.” 

Bobby slipped off his hat, squeezing the brim in his free hand. “Balls. Where are you now?” 

“Running. I think I’m getting close to the road. Took an hour to find a signal. Bobby, I don’t know what I can do. I can’t stop or they’ll find me.” 

“Then keep running,” said Bobby, trying to give Sam guidance. “Don’t stop until you get in that car and get moving.” 

“Moving… Dean had his phone on him!” panted Sam, pausing for a minute. “Can you track his phone GPS?” 

“I can damn well try.” Bobby put the phone on speaker and wheeled to the computer in the other room. “Same code?” 

“Yeah. Thank God, I can see the car. I—” Sam’s panting was cut off with a gasp. 

Bobby paused, the site pulled up and ready. “Son?” 

Sam breathed hard, as if spooked. “Angels.” 

The phone cut out and Bobby cursed up a storm. He pulled up a second window on the computer, ready to look up Sam’s location as well. “Gabriel, you asshole. I ever get my mitts on you you’re gonna end up battered, fried, and served on top of a stack of waffles!” 

\---

Dean woke up on a plush couch, a velvet pillow under his head, comfortable for the first time in 24 hours. The air smelled of burgers, fries, and cinnamon warm leather. Childhood peace and contentment. Opening his eyes, he saw a chandelier encrusted in crystal, shining pure and bright over a white room lined with gold. Classical oil paintings hung from the walls, all with the same motif; the archangel Michael posturing over his fallen brother.

The Beautiful Room. 

Dean jumped to his feet only to be shoved back down by two suited angels. Castiel’s strength had left him, but he could still feel the angel’s presence in his chest, tight and compact like a lead ball. 

Dean shoved off their arms. “Back the fuck off!” 

“They don’t need to be polite.” Zachariah stepped into the room, smug. Begging to get the crap beaten out of him. “We could always keep you in chains if you prefer. Wasn’t that one of your motifs in Hell?” 

Dean crossed his arms and slouched back on the couch. He had played this game with Zachariah before; it was all bluster and bullying to get him to say one word. Except there wasn’t an angel on the outside trying to get him free. He was on his own. 

“I’m not saying yes.” 

“I’m not asking that.” Zachariah waved his hand and the two angels left. “Yet. Just a few details.” 

Dean smiled, breaking out the bravado. “If it’s how I have such a handsome face, you’d have to blame genetics.” 

“No.” Zachariah picked up an angel statue as he strode over to the Winchester, fingering the individual feathers in the porcelain. “Where is Castiel?” 

Dean kept his grin in place, but just barely. Obviously Zachariah couldn’t sense the seraph or he wouldn’t be asking such a question. But the sigils had been weakened. What would Zachariah do if he found out? Dean pulled his arms tighter across his chest. “He hasn’t called. Why? He stood you up on a date?” 

“Cute,” said Zachariah, smug smile stretching wider. “No, I just want to pay him back for a little misunderstanding. It seems he thinks he should be leading the host of Heaven on his little quest, throwing away God’s plan for a few… humans.” 

“He’d be a hell of a lot better at it than you are.” Even as Dean said it, the paintings on the wall changed from romanticized portraits of angels, to grotesques of Hell, some accurate, some not. 

Zachariah sighed and put down the angel statue with a gentle clink on the side table at Dean’s left. “What he sees in you I’ll never know. Michael having to take a vessel soiled by the dirt of earth is one thing, but to take one that’s been through Hell’s wringer. That’s probably pity on his part.” 

“Not like you’re doing your own vessel any favors,” said Dean. 

“Sad thing is, even though you say no, you hunger to be used for a vessel. It’s your purposed and you’re rejecting it.” Zachariah leaned forward; lining up his smug face with Dean’s, voice holding the anger of a thousand storms, but staying a light rumble. Out of the corners of his eyes, Dean could see the proud lift of wings behind him, flaring out. One wing arched lower than the other, bits of the shadow that was supposed to make up his feathers missing. A fresh injury. 

Way to go Cas. 

“Why do you think you’re so empty, so broken? You’re just a rotting shell. What good you had left was burned out by Hell. You failed your father, a drunk; you failed your brother, a violent addict; and you’ll fail all of Heaven and earth if you don’t accept the one thing that can make you useful. Say yes to Michael. Let him in. And maybe, just maybe, you won’t be a complete waste of carbon.” 

Famine’s words echoed in Zachariah’s speech, weighing Dean down and making the burger and pie smells of childhood spoil. 

_“That’s one deep dark nothing you got there, Dean. Can’t fill it, can you?”_

No. Dean couldn’t fill it. Drink all he wanted, eat all he wanted, fuck all he could; it didn’t make him feel better, just well fed. An animal without purpose other than what his father left him and the supposed destiny put forth by Heaven. 

But he wasn’t nothing. He could laugh when Sam joked around. He could smile when he helped someone. He could roll his eyes when Cas couldn’t get a reference for the fifth time. He could grumble at Sam picking crappy music on the radio. And all that he could feel as a part of him as much as his bones that broke, and bent, and got beat and sometimes made him cry. 

He couldn’t be nothing because he didn’t want to be nothing. 

_You were a warm weight._

Maybe he was a shell without Cas and his brother. But he had the right to choose who filled the emptiness. And it sure as hell wouldn’t be Michael. 

Dean slowly got to his feet, eyes squinting to green slits, lips rolled in a sneer, standing with all the confidence he could muster even if he couldn’t have Castiel at his back. He stood toe to toe with Zachariah. Personal space. Who needed it in a fight? 

“I will never say yes. And I sure as hell ain’t talking about Cas. Unless you admit that he scares the crap out of you because he’s right, and you’re wrong.”

Zachariah’s eyes flashed at that last part, the smug façade slipping. He gestured with a hand and Dean’s left leg broke. 

\---

“Bobby…?” 

The cell signal died. Sam stood frozen, as if afraid to spook the wildlife, lungs burning and a stitch in his side from running. It was a futile effort; the angels standing next to the Impala had already seen him. The one wearing the gray suit and stripped tie approached, knife out while the other, suit jacket and v-necked shirt, lingered by the car, hesitant. 

“You’re coming with us,” said the suited angel. 

Sam glanced around for a flat surface. His hand was still bloody, another nick with his pocket knife and he could draw another banishing sigil. He backed up, hoping to reach one of the trees. “Why? You already have my brother. And I won’t talk about Cas.” 

“Dean Winchester needs an incentive,” said the angel, twirling the blade in his hand. “We could care less about that traitor.”

“Sarquiel…” said the other angel, voice soothing with an almost English accent. 

Sarquiel ignored him, grabbing Sam by the shoulder and pushing him down. Sam flailed under the angel’s crushing hand, the cell phone clattering into the bushes. 

“I believe it’s in Heaven’s best interest to leave Lucifer’s vessel minus a few limbs. Don’t you?” 

“Sarquiel…” The other angel’s jaw clenched and he smacked his hand, bloody, on the hood of the Impala. 

A banishing sigil. Sam closed his eyes as the angel’s wings flashed and his hand tore from Sam’s shoulder. When he opened them only the blond, v-neck angel stood. 

Sam scrambled to his feet. “You just—?”

“Outed myself, that’s what,” said the angel, flicking the blood off his hand with a flutter of his fingers. He stared at the hunter, face a frown as if frustrated with himself. “You said you wouldn’t talk about Castiel. Can you at least tell me he’s safe, wherever he is?” 

Sam frowned, still catching his breath. Dean had mentioned Castiel might have angels willing to take their side, but it was hard to believe one just popping up out of the blue. “How can I trust you?” 

“There is no one else within twenty miles for you to trust,” said the angel. “I suggest you not pick and choose, darling. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t completely trust you either.”

“I don’t know you,” bit out Sam. He edged closer to a tree, blood dripping and ready. 

“My name is Balthazar,” said the angel, forcing patience. “I once fought in Castiel’s garrison. Now, I’ve heard a lot of rumors; that he died and God brought him back. That he’s rebelling and wounded Zachariah. They claim he is spreading blasphemy… but part of me… doubts.” 

Doubt. That is what eventually brought Cas to their side. Sam could get behind that. And he had nothing else to lose. “He’s with Dean. Do you know where the other angels took him?” 

Balthazar shifted his hands to his hips. “The only place Zachariah would take Dean is to the Green Room. Now, what about Cassy?” 

The Green Room, the beautiful room Dean mentioned after he escaped from Zachariah the first time when Sam was busy cracking open Lucifer’s cage. “Cas is safe, for now, but he’s weak. Needs help. The Green Room; can you take me there?” 

Balthazar considered the hunter’s request, wondering how far he was willing to defy Heaven’s orders just to make sure one brother was alright. “I can get you close.” 

“Can you take the car with us?” One hunter and an unsure angel against the Host of Heaven. Sam had been willing to work with less.

\---

Dean collapsed to the marble floor with a strangled cry. His knee had popped out of the socket with a sickening tug. Even as he had went down, he could feel a tendril of grace trickle down to his knee. 

Zachariah practically crowed above him. “Listen, you sad sack of flesh. We can build you up from scrap, minus a few uninteresting parts. I can dip you back down into Hell for decades if that’s what it’ll take.” He reached down and grabbed Dean by his hair, jerking his head up. “Either you tell me where Castiel is, or I’m going to find your brother and tear his lungs out the messy way. And if that doesn’t do it for you, I can go after your crippled father figure.” 

The tendons around Dean’s knee melded back into place, popping the bone where it belonged. Heat thrummed under his skin. Dean kicked out at Zachariah, striking the angel’s shin, but not bringing him down. The angel stumbled back, aghast. Dean took the opportunity to grab the angel statue and break it over Zachariah’s head. 

Zachariah caught Dean’s wrist, twisting it until the tendons burned, shredding. Grabbing Dean’s shirt, he pushed him down to the ground. Dean kicked again, his shirt riding up, exposing the bandage on his side that hung on thanks to the tackiness of dried blood. Dean tried to pull Zachariah’s hand off his wrist, but the angel didn’t notice his grip. He looked at Dean’s chest, the bandage, and then through it. Dean’s gut dropped out when he saw fury grow on the angel’s face like a mushroom cloud. 

He knew. 

\---

Sam’s ears popped, the fresh air and greenery of the Canadian forest changing into a gray industrial area and car exhaust. A truck whizzed by behind him. Sam spun around. “Welcome to Van Nuys, CA!” said a sign across the street. 

Balthazar pointed across the road to a set of squat factory buildings, the area closed off with rusted chain link. “Abandoned muffler factory, third shack down.” 

Sam nodded. He was close, he just needed a plan. 

“You said Castiel would be here. I can’t sense him.” Balthazar grimaced, looking around as if seeing things Sam couldn’t. “There are more angels in there then I would be comfortable dealing with.” 

“He’s hidden. I can’t explain how.” Sam huffed a breath, counting himself lucky to just get this far. “You got me here, which was more than I expected. If you leave, I understand.” 

Balthazar was gone before he finished the sentence. 

“Typical.” Sam went back to examining the arsenal in the trunk. 

He couldn’t use the banishing sigil, it would possibly kill Cas and the angels would come back eventually. He needed something more permanent. He had holy water, holy beads, holy oil, rocket launcher, flame thrower…

Sam’s brain clicked, forming an idea that was a little less of a plan, more of a concept. 

\---

You…” Zachariah fumed, his nostrils flaring, eyes dark with wrath. The shadows of wings behind him slashed at the air. He pulled Dean up off the floor by his throat, fingers digging into the hunter’s windpipe. 

“You let that traitor inside? You let him taint Michael’s place!” Zachariah’s other hand pressed against Dean’s belly, the same place Famine touched him, and then slid in and up, slicing through, flesh, bone, and soul to furrow towards a cage that was supposed to protect one blue-eyed angel. 

A yell ripped out of Dean, tapering off to a whimper before rising again as Zachariah shoved his arm in further. Scorching, knife-sharp tendrils of rough salt shoved around his lungs, prodding his pounding heart. He clutched at the arm going inside him. Dean choked, tears running down his cheeks. 

Zachariah’s words were punctuated with a shake, ripping into Dean and what little hope the hunter had left. “You stupid, filthy, mud-ridden, mistake!” 

Inside, Dean could feel Cas thrashing like a bird in a hurricane. 

\---

Zachariah’s invading limb became light, knives, and thorns reaching for Castiel’s wings. Blade in hand, Castiel’s wings flared, ready to fight. Wind blew; the sky grew dark, pulsing with dry clouds of dust that smelled of ozone and blood. 

The lake was barely more than a puddle, but Castiel would take from Zachariah what he could. If nothing else, to drive the monstrous angel out of Dean. He rose, dived, swooped, as fast as he had been in Hell. As he slashed at one of the tendrils, a spear of thorns lunged through his wing.

\---

Dean had both hands on Zachariah’s arm as he was pulled up off his feet against a marble pillar. He could barely breathe. The fight inside tore the membrane keeping Cas separate from himself, bits of grace seeping into his bloodstream and burning away under his skin. His veins flickered like lightening. 

He could hear Castiel scream. The cold slash of the angel’s blade became less and less frequent. Burning feathers leaked into Dean’s lungs, making him cough smoke and embers. 

“Cas,” he choked out, begging. The edge of his vision went dark. Through his ribs the light faded, like the filter of the setting sun through a stained glass window. “Cas!” 

“Pathetic enough to let him in.” Zachariah slammed Dean back against the pillar, making Dean’s head ring. The hand on Dean’s throat lowered to his shoulder, bruising the hand shaped scar. Zachariah twisted his arm. “Bending over for a lowly seraph.” 

Castiel screamed and Dean screamed with him, their voices overlapping to shake the walls, making the chandelier overhead spark and its crystals crack into splinters. 

\---

Sam peeked around the doorway, the warehouse dark inside, shadows and empty pallets. Of course it would be easy going in. Getting out, that was the problem. 

He went in anyway, the pack on his back heavy, the liquid inside sloshing back and forth with his steps. Across the floor of the warehouse was an enclosed office area of warped wood and peeling drywall. In the cracks around the door, he could see light. Guess Balthazar hadn’t been lying. 

Sam took another step, and the air snapped like sheets in the wind. Four angels, front and back and on either side, stood with their blades out. But too far away for Sam’s less-of-a-plan-more-of-a-concept. 

Balthazar hadn’t been lying about the angels either. 

Sam took a breath, about to call the angels out, make them get closer, when a scream pierced through the air. It whined, high and shrill like an angel’s voice, cracking the windows and shattering the dead bulbs overhead. And under the shattering of glass Sam could hear Dean screaming in pain. 

“Well?” Sam jeered. “What are you waiting for?” 

The angels circled closer. Sam clicked the ignition trigger on the gun, a single small flame glowing at the end. 

Close enough. 

\---

Still in Zachariah’s grip, Dean saw himself laying back on the pebbly lakebed, lightning and feathers flashing overhead. He felt Cas give up and fall from the sky like a star, a searing streak of heat. Dean slumped forward, bowing over Zachariah’s arm, limbs slack. Then he felt something metal in his palm, pressing hard and passing through the shredded membrane. 

Castiel’s blade. 

Dean snarled, white-knuckle gripped the handle, and stabbed upwards, punching the lethal tip up through Zachariah’s jaw. His feet touched the floor again. 

Dean’s voice cracked. “The position’s been filled.” 

Eyes wide in disbelief, the angel collapsed, his bones flickering in his skin like a bad lamp. His arm slipped out of Dean’s chest like a barbed javelin, making a wet squelch. Dean stumbled back, landing on his ass. He curled his arms around his chest, knuckles white around the pommel of Castiel’s blade. 

Zachariah’s body flared, bright enough to make Dean cover his eyes as the angel gave one last defiant cry. When Dean looked again, there was a sooty print of wings reaching up to the ceiling and across the crystal sprinkled floor. 

Dean groaned, shifting away from the body. His chest had a deep, dark ache that made him think Zachariah had taken out half a lung. Yet when he reached his hand under his shirt, his skin was whole. And Cas… nothing; a jabbing pain under his pumping heart and heat leaking into his body, making him feverish. 

“Cas?” he croaked, shaking. 

Dean looked towards the door, seeming so far away. He heard fluttering wings, yelling. Zachariah’s back up. And all Dean had was a broken body and one blade if they got through. He rose to his knees. He’d go down fighting if he had to. That’s what Cas had done. 

The door broke down, but it wasn’t angels that came through. Sam hobbled into the room, swearing as he did, batting at a flame that sprouted on his jacket. Smoke billowed in from the doorway, smelling of spices and burned feathers. 

Dean’s defiant strength left him with a whimpering laugh, leaving him to the marble floor. Rescue. Sam had come to rescue him. He had never felt so blessed to have a brother like Sam. “S-Sammy.” 

Sam’s face split into a relieved grin. He shouldered the flamethrower and went to his knees, cradling his brother close. “Dean! You okay?” 

“Peachy,” his breath hitched as another gush of heat leaked out of his chest and trickled down to pool in his belly. His wrist didn’t hurt anymore, the bruises faded from his neck. But the pain in his chest remained. “Cas… Zach ripped into him...” 

“Zachariah.” Sam looked around and then noticed the body on the ground. “That’ll do. We gotta go.” Sam hefted his brother’s arm over his shoulder with one hand and readied the flame thrower with the other. 

“Fighting angels with fire?” asked Dean, grimacing at every step. 

“Holy oil flamethrower,” replied Sam. 

“Nice.” For as long as they had that thing in the trunk, they had never used it, keeping it for a rainy day. It must be pouring. 

Dean didn’t know what he expected when he exited the door, but he hadn’t counted on a giant warehouse lined with flame and a few spots of smoldering feathers. The door across the way was open, showing clear sunlight. Freedom. But when Dean tried to follow Sam over a line of flame, his chest twisted, making him cry out. 

“Hurts.” 

Sam stomped out a line of flame to make a space for Dean to pass through. As bad as it was, if Dean had felt pain from the holy flame, that must mean Castiel was still alive. Still had a chance. 

Midway through the warehouse the sprinklers finally spurted to life, water hissing down on the now fading lines of fire. Sam and Dean left the abandoned muffler factory wet, not looking back as the building smoked and crumbled. 

They got to the Impala just as a fire truck came around the end of the street. A dried banishing sigil scorched the hood. 

_Damn it, not Baby_ , thought Dean. 

Dean collapsed on the back seat, curling his arms around his chest, holding the angel blade like his first gun. 

“Cas…” he whispered. 

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “Is he okay?” 

Dean flickered between sleep and awake, holding himself together while dipping into the dream, seeing double. Ravaged grass lined the bare lake, furrows cut into the ground like talons had gripped the dirt. The ribs above in the night sky heaved in and out with his breath. Stars, he saw stars now, sparkling silver above and in the grass and lake bed. He could feel the slow pounding of his heart. But where was Cas? 

He stood at the end of the dock and squinted in the dark for any sign of the angel. Then he saw a spill of silver in the middle of the lakebed, a feathery form next to it. Castiel. Dean ran, kicking up dust and rocks. At Castiel’s feet he stopped short, aghast. 

If the banishing sigil had been a weed whacker, Zachariah’s hand had been a meat grinder. The skin at Castiel’s shoulder and side was torn open, bleeding light and silver. The silver in the sky and grass wasn’t stars, but drops of Castiel’s blood. His wings, what was left of them, lay broken in several places, silvery bone poking out between ripped feathers. And his face… 

Half of it was covered in silver and red. A line going from his temple and slashing at an angle until the curve of the cut met both lips and his chin. One eye was closed, the other too slicked in silver to tell if it was open, closed, or gone. 

“Cas…” Dean knelt by him, hands shaking, trying to find a place to touch that wasn’t bleeding. He tilted Castiel’s face towards him, rubbing a spot on the angel’s left cheek free of silvery blood. “Cas. Wake up man.” 

Dean shook Castiel’s shoulder, making the angel groan as the broken pieces of his wing ground together. “C’mon, you gotta tell me what to do.” 

The illusion between the lake and Dean’s insides became thinner. Dean could almost see the flesh connecting to his ribs; the tendon’s making his heart contract. 

“Dean?” Sam rasped. 

Dean opened his eyes, hands still pressed to his chest. He could still feel Cas in his arms, still see him laying in the dry lakebed as clearly as he could see Sam hovering over him. Seeing inside and outside at the same time. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he begged to Cas while still seeing Sam. Heat prickled at his eyes. “Sam, he’s not moving.” 

Sam pressed his hand over Dean’s chest, as if trying to will Castiel to move under his fingers. “You’re burning up.” 

Strange, Dean didn’t feel warm, he felt cold, bereft, slowly being hollowed out. Sam peeled open his jacket and rolled up his shirt. 

“You’re glowing.” 

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the same flicker from his chest that he saw in Zachariah’s eyes when he died. Inside, in that place where bones and flesh melted to peace, the silvery blood pool around Castiel’s body grew. 

Dean’s voice broke. “He’s bleeding out.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by Prinzik. Check her out here: http://prinzik.tumblr.com/

“There has got to be more than one grace circle!” begged Sam.

While Dean lay in the back seat, panting and curled around his middle, Sam gunned it on the San Diego freeway. He had Bobby on the phone, searching for another grace circle within driving range. It had been barely thirty minutes since escaping the Green Room, and Dean still looked like crap warmed over an open flame. The sun was falling, dusting everything with a pollution aided orange glow.

“I don’t know what to tell you, son,” said Bobby. “I even got Jody here running through the lore. We’ve got nothing. Best thing I can figure is you need to get on a plane back to Alberta.”

“How soon can you arrange a flight?” asked Sam, mind spinning as he tried to stay in his lane. It didn’t help that he could hear Dean in the backseat praying, begging. He prayed too.

“Balthazar, if you care about Castiel at all, get here now.” If they could take Angel Air to Canada, Cas might have a chance. But Sam doubted they could get that lucky.

\---

Dean cradled the angel’s body close, not caring if the silvery blood got on him. The pebbles clattered under his knees, leaving small streaks of mud. There was only a small patch of lake bed left and a bit of the dock. The rest was darkness, pounding hollow like a drum, expanding and contracting with his breath.

“Cas. You need to hang on a few more days, okay. Just enough time to get back to Canada. I’ll even take a plane to get there. How would you like that?” Dean cracked a smile, desperate. “Taking the plane while I’m shaking like a leaf around you? You’ll probably laugh.”

Dean pressed his nose to Castiel’s hair. “You don’t even have to leave. You can stay with me as long as you want. I’ll eat a hundred cheeseburgers for you, with pineapple. You can tickle me until I pass out. Just don’t go yet.”

Castiel twitched. This was the most movement he had gotten from the angel since Sam started driving. Cas moved his mottled hand from his side and pressed it into Dean’s palm. Metal. Opening his eyes to the roof of the Impala, the amulet rested in his palm. Back where it belonged.

Which meant Castiel didn’t believe he would make it to Canada.

Another tear stained the upholstery, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut, back to the lake bed. “No, you don’t get to give up on me,” he snarled. “I might already have, but don’t you dare do that. I’m gonna save you.”

Castiel’s lips moved, but Dean couldn’t hear him, his heart beating too loud. Fucking damn thing couldn’t shut up when he wanted it too. He dipped his ear to Castiel’s mouth. “Cas? Say again please?“

The one word took too much effort and Cas went limp. Dean squeezed the angel tight, Castiel’s broken body switching from tense to limp, like a fragmented seizure. Castiel’s strength running dry, just like the lake. A dead angel goldfish. Dean looked around. Where had all the water gone?

Then it hit him. Sam’s analogy; the goldfish in the plastic bag. The water must have been Castiel’s grace, his life. And it had been leaking all this time through the rocks at the bottom of the lake, through that membrane.

Dean had to find it.

Reluctantly, Dean let go of Cas and dug his fingers into the lakebed, prying up rocks and tossing pebbles away. He needed water, something to wet Castiel’s lips, give him life. He pulled at the ground until the he hit something that felt like glass.

Dean grabbed one of the bigger rocks and hit it. His own body sucking up Castiel’s grace just for the chance to feel whole. The very thought made his face red with anger and his arm numb. His ribs hitched at the impact of rock and glass.

He hit again, willing to break apart every bone in his body if that’s what it took to find a drop of grace. The ribs hitched again, making it hard to draw breath.

“C’mon!”

One more hit, putting his shoulder into it. The ground beneath the hunter and angel cracked, crumbling away into pitch darkness. They fell, Dean reaching out, trying to get Cas back in his arms.

The rib pillars stopped moving.

\---

“Could you all drive any slower?” growled Sam, passing another slow-ass SUV.

He had his ear out for Bobby to call back with either directions to a new grace circle, or flight information.

Instead of the beeping of his cell phone, he heard a clattering wheeze from the backseat and then a thump.

“Dean?”

Sam turned around, seatbelt creaking.

The arm that had held Castiel’s blade lay limp, dangling into the foot well. Dean eyes were open, glassed over, chest still.

The brakes squealed as Sam spun the wheel, cutting off the SUV and making for the road side. Horns blasted behind him, just barely missing a pile up as the SUV careened to the side of the road further ahead. Sam put the car in park, emergency lights on, and then ran to the right side of the back seat. He hauled Dean out by his armpits and laid him on the ground, pillowing his brother’s head with his jacket.

Sam hovered his hand over Dean’s mouth and nostrils; no breath. Checked his neck; no pulse. God, please no. Not after all this. He lined up his hands over each other on the center of Dean’s chest and started compressions, fighting to press just two inches deep when he wanted to shove the world away.

Footsteps crunched towards him. “What the _fuck_ , man?”

The pissed SUV driver. Sam didn’t give a crap; and if the guy pushed it Sam had a gun. The man came around the front of the Impala.

“Are you fucking drunk you hick assho-- oh.” A heavyset man with a bad shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals stood with a slack jaw. A tourist. He took one look at Dean, clothes bloody and skin pale, and got the hint.

“Either call for an ambulance or fucking leave,” Sam hissed between compressions.

“Shit!” The man ran back to the SUV. “Sara, call 911! Ma, get your C-pap out!”

Thirty compressions in, no change. Sam tilted back Dean’s head, pinched his nostrils, sealed his mouth over Dean’s, and breathed.

\---

They hit the water, too deep to stand in and dark as pitch. Dean dragged himself to the surface, spluttering water. The only light came from the crack above, leaving the water black with small grey swells. He couldn’t see Cas.

“Cas!”

Feathers floated like funeral barges on the dark water. For a moment Dean feared Castiel had hit the water and disintegrated like a pressed candy pellet. He swam in a circled, hand feeling for anything with more substance, a limb, a shred of trench coat.

A wet, sodden clump of feathers hit his hand and Dean followed it under the surface. Castiel’s broken wing. Dean took a breath and followed the limb until he gripped a handful of ripped cloth and hauled it up. Cas lay with his head limp against Dean’s shoulder, his broken, heavy wings on either side. Dean kept one arm around Castiel’s torso while the other kept them afloat. A flickering glow leaked from the angel’s wounds, the grace and blood washing away.

Above, the rocky ceiling crumbled further, dropping down on Dean’s arm.

“Shit!” Dean tilted his torso up, struggling to keep them afloat when Castiel’s wings weighed them down. “You need to wake up!”

_Looks like you want to drown yourself, amigo._

\---

Sam kept up with the compressions, his forehead dripping sweat. Another car joined the side of the road, headlights on, putting Sam and Dean in the spotlight. One young teenager filmed them with an iphone while the adults hesitantly offered to take over and give Sam a break. Sam didn’t let them.

Then the tourist guy came back with a large bag and pulled out a small machine with a transparent face mask connected to an air cylinder with a hose. A C-pap machine. While Sam did compressions, the man kept the mask over Dean’s mouth and nose, keeping his airway open and oxygen flowing.

“Sara, how much longer until the ambulance?” the man called over his shoulder.

A spindly Hispanic woman waved at him. “Ten minutes.”

Another car pulled over, people curious, cautious, wanting to be good Samaritans but not knowing how. Sam ignored them, pressing on, praying, tears mingling with sweat.

“Cas, if you’re in there, don’t let Dean go with you. Please.”

The tourist gave Sam an odd look, and then went back to monitoring the machine’s battery power.

\---

In the distance Dean saw a throbbing speck of light slowly growing brighter. He swam towards it, slow, dragging Castiel’s heavy body along. Rocks kept raining down, sometimes chunks falling onto Castiel’s wings, but the angel didn’t flinch. Dean ignored the collapsing ceiling, focusing on the light until he reached it.

It was a golden bowl crusted with frost on a small island no bigger than a dinner tray but standing an arm’s length above the water.

This was what Cas needed; Dean knew just from looking at the light.

But to reach the bowl he would have to let Cas go.

Let go and get the bowl, or keep treading water until they both drowned?

He took a chance.

He let go of Cas, hauled himself up, and grabbed the bowl, careful to not tip out the contents. Floating in a small puddle was a ball of light, bright but no bigger than a large marble. He brought the bowl to his lips, taking in the water and the light in one quick slurp. It burned his mouth like a salted coal, sending sweet fumes down his throat. But he didn’t swallow.

Taking a breath through his nose, he dived back down, his fingers searching again. He touched a broken wing and pulled closer along the limb, feeling his way down to Castiel’s shoulder, then neck, then holding his face in both hands. Dean sealed his mouth over Castiel’s lips and pushed the light down the angel’s throat.

\---

Laid out on the ground, and filmed by no less than three cell phones, Dean’s hand shaped scar smoldered through his over-shirt. Sam kept doing compressions in cycles of thirty, panting, shoulders burning.

“Twenty nine. Thirty.” The tourist pulled away the plastic mask over Dean’s nose and mouth, and Sam breathed again.

\---

Castiel gasped, stealing the breath from Dean’s mouth as his wings flared, the bones snapping together. The rest of the rocky ceiling broke away and the water line rose until they were pushed upwards toward the light.

\---

Dean choked, squeezing his dry eyes shut as something pressed down on his chest. Then the pressure eased up.

“Dean?”

Dean took a full, unhurried breath as his limbs tingled, heavy but alive. He opened his eyes. Sam hovered over him, face pinched in worry. Headlights shined on them like spotlights.

Dean coughed, spit dry in his throat. “Gah…”

Sam’s face split in a grin, crying, happy, leaning over and squeezing Dean in a hug. Dean weakly patted him back, still trying to catch his breath. A man in a weird t-shirt patted his shoulder. Around them a small crowd of people cheered.

How the hell did they get an audience?

A wailing ambulance pulled up by the parked cars, bathing the area in flickering blue and red light. A little too late, but Sam waved them over anyway.

“You’re getting checked out, and then we are having a long talk on how you’re not allowed to die in my arms again,” said Sam. “The first hundred times were enough.”

“Right,” huffed Dean, content to lie back down.

“Is Cas…?” asked Sam.

Dean felt a small tremor next to his lungs. “I think he’ll be fine.”

As the paramedics shooed away the spectators and took Dean into their care, Sam’s phone rang. Bobby.

He wished he could pass the phone over to Dean because he had no idea how he was going to explain going from encountering angels in Alberta to hauling ass in California and Dean having another near-death experience.

\---

Castiel opened his eyes to a black sky spackled with stars. He lay on the dock, the lake full and forest around it green and lush. He felt… un-diminished; as if he had been a sponge squeezed dry, and now he was soaked through. He hadn’t felt this capable since the rising of Lucifer.

That shouldn’t be possible.

He stretched a wing out, the primaries slipping over the edge of the dock and dipping into the cool, clear, deep water. Raising it higher, he felt the feathers brush the edge of Dean’s ribs and the confining sigils. The membrane, before in tatters thanks to Zachariah, was thin but whole. He was still trapped but Dean was no longer in danger. The vibrations of Dean’s heart echoed around him, strong and constant.

Dean was fine.

Cas was fine.

And Zachariah was dead.

A victory cry, picked up from too much time with the Winchesters, and seeming very appropriate at the time, slipped out of his mouth.

“Awesome.”

Cas stood up. His wings, whole and filled with a power to surpass hurricanes, stretched and pumped through the air.

\---

“I swear,” snapped Bobby over the receiver. “If the apocalypse doesn’t kill me, a heart attack from you two will.”

Dean winced, pulling the phone from his ear as he lay on the hospital bed, waiting for Sam to sign him out. He had a heart monitor attached to his chest, and an IV stuck in his arm. The air smelled of sterile metal and occasional bodily fluids. He wore one of those backless gowns that showed off his ass if he moved wrong. And there was no one around worth showing it off for.

Aside from bruising he was fine. It wouldn’t take much to convince the doctors to let him go. The hospital was desperate on beds. But Dean could definitely use more sleep. His body still felt heavy, as if buckets of water hung from his limbs.

On the plus side, the doctors didn’t give him a catheter. And if the tickling flutter inside him was any indicator, Cas was fine too.

“We didn’t plan this, okay?” said Dean. “And keep it down; my ears are ringing like stripper bells on Christmas.”

“Yeah well that little miracle show on the side of the road got uploaded in HD on YouTube,” warned Bobby. “It’s not gonna take much for the dumb-asses that call themselves hunters to put two and two together. You need to scoot the moment you’re able.”

“That we can do,” assured Dean.

“Take care of yourselves.”

Bobby hung up and Dean relaxed into the hospital bedding. Somewhere beneath his diaphragm, Castiel vibrated contentment. It lulled him like 75 cents worth of magic fingers. Warm and, for the moment, without a care, he closed his eyes.

 

_“Thank you, Jack Daniels, Old number seven…”_

Dean’s head jerked off the bar, the sticky aftermath of a beer lingering on his cheek. Thousands of bottles lined the room, all of them full and frosty. The jukebox crooned the grit and scratch of old records.

The same damn bar that got him into this mess.

“Another, hombre?” Gabriel leaned over the counter, rag in hand, polishing an already clean glass.

Dean shoved himself back, the barstool tipping over with a wooden clatter. “How the hell did you find me?”

“You make it sound like I’m incapable of using Google.” Gabriel snorted, snapping a package of rollos to hand and peeling off the gold wrapper. “Not that big a stretch to look up muscle car sightings.”

“Good for you.” Dean’s hand went to his boot knife only to find it gone. No weapons in this dream. Shame, he’d feel a lot better if he could stab the archangel in the face.

Cas jerked against his sternum. Shit. Castiel and Gabriel in the same place did not bode well.

Dean took another step back, needing more distance between the archangel douche bag and Cas. “What do you want?”

“Just checking in. Making sure the little angel that could was still kicking.”

“Kicking? Cas nearly fucking died!” yelled Dean, rage steaming out his ears. Castiel nudged him, like an elbow to the side. Dean ignored it, putting a hand over his middle. “Your cage bled him dry of his grace. After Zachariah found him there wasn’t much left to save! Why the hell would you do that to him?”

For a second, Gabriel looked guilty. “To be honest, I thought you would take better care of yourself, and him. And why? I thought you might want to know what were missing.“ Gabriel talked with his mouth full of caramel and chocolate. He sat up on the bar, legs dangling. “You think Cas feels good, wait till you feel what an archangel can do.” Gabriel grinned, but the humor was lost on Dean. The Trickster‘s smile faded, all business. “Besides, it looked like Castiel could use a break. What better place than a cage where heaven’s eyes can’t see?”

“You put him inside me for his own safety?” Dean eyed a bottle of Grey Goose with it’s long neck. Break the bottle and he could use it as a knife, maybe get in a few slashes at the bastard’s face before he got snapped away.

“Hey, what’s safer than a Winchester? I figured if anything could save its hide at the expense of the world it’d be you two. Unless you’d rather I stuck him in Sammy?”

“No. No, no, _no_.” Dean waved his hand as if trying to bat away the very idea. Sam had been giddy just knowing Cas was taking up residence in his brother. He didn’t want to know what would have happened if Sam had taken Cas.

“Funny, since that’s kind of Heaven’s end game now. Don’t know how they’re going to go about doing it with Zachy boned up the ass. Thank you for that, by the way. Guy was enough to give me a rash,” said Gabriel. He snapped away the bottles and glasses, leaving the bar spotless and silent. “You’d think you’d be more grateful.”

“For helping Cas play hide and go seek?”

“Not that, Dean-o.” Gabriel leaned close, breath smelling of sugar, eyes flashing fire. “A portable cage that could keep angels locked away, even for a little while, that’s a good thing to know about. Don’t you think?”

Dean’s eyes widened, hand on his chest clenching as Cas pressed closer to his ribs, as if leaning in to listen. “You saying I should use this again?”

“It’s not perfect. And not strong enough to hold anything close to an archangel, yet…” Gabriel let the last word hang in the air like a jewel. “Think about it.”

The archangel raised his hand to snap away the dream.

“Whoa! Wait!” said Dean. “How do I get Cas out of me!”

Gabriel smirked. “Check your car”

“My car? What did you do to baby?!” 

Snap!

\---

Dean nearly walked into the parking lot wearing nothing but the backless robe to check the impala. Sam had been lucky to stop him before he caused a scene. Once Dean was signed out, they looked over every inch of the car. 

Sam found it in the trunk; a brown glass bottle with a length of twine holding a label that read: “Drink Me”. 

“We really going to trust him on this?” asked Sam, holding the bottle to the light. “For all we know there could be another angel in here.” 

“Two angels can’t stick around in one body,” said Dean, opening up the passenger seat and gently lowering himself down. Sam had the honor of driving them to the nearest motel to crash since Dean had just been released from the hospital. “And I think he’s trying to be straight with us for once. We’ll figure it out tomorrow. For a little while at least we got some breathing room from angels.” 

Sam nodded and went to close the trunk when he spotted eleven white and red foil wrappers. 

“Damn it! He ate the Kinder Eggs!” 

Dean tilted his head out of the window. “He leave the toys?” 

“No!” Sam cleared out the wrappers and found one unopened Kinder Egg. He brought to the front, handing it off to Dean as he settled into the driver‘s seat. “He left one egg.” 

“Then this one is Bobby’s.” The old man deserved something aside from beer. Dean set the chocolate egg in the glove box next to a hex bag. 

\---

The brothers hit the sack at the same time, but Dean followed into dreams first. 

Dean lay on the dock, a large dark wing pillowing his back. Closest thing to true rest was dreaming of laying down. Instead of white ribs and blue sky, stars sparked overhead. 

“What’ll happen to his place when you leave?” 

Castiel, lay next to Dean, his other wing dipping into the lake and letting the water fall off the oiled tips of his feathers. “I suppose it will dissipate into your consciousness. Unless you become apt at lucid dreaming and can manipulate the environment to suit your wants.” 

Which meant Dean would probably never see this place again. Be back to his usual dreams, and nightmares. 

“What about you?” asked Dean. “You still gung ho on the God hunt?” 

Castiel nodded. “Yes. Now that I know a few grace circles have survived I have a better idea on how to go about it. And with Zachariah gone I might be able to convince of few of my brothers to join me. Sam’s news of Balthazar is heartening. I haven’t heard from him since before the battle into hell.” 

Dean grimaced. Go figure the moment Castiel was free and in the clear he’d skip out again. And he’d have to give up his necklace again. “Yeah, I guess that’s good news.” 

Castiel turned to his side, the wing in the water arcing up over them, blocking out the stars. “Dean. I wish to ask you a favor.” 

Why not? “Shoot.” 

“Be patient with me.” Castiel’s tanned fingers moved over Dean’s, intertwining, clinging for dear life as he fumbled over very human words. “I’m… the apocalypse is hardly the place for romantic notions…” 

“Romance…” Dean’s frown quirked up. His hand squeezed back. He wouldn’t call what they had “romance”. Not by a long shot. But it was a need for each other. As much as he needed to know Sam was safe, he needed Castiel safe. It kept him whole. “How about we start here then?” 

Castiel smiled, bringing their hands up. “I can do that.” 

For a few minutes silence, gazing at grace stars. Then Cas spoke. 

“At what point in our courtship do we engage in coitus?” 

If there was a chance for a spit-take, that was it. “Wha! You… want to have sex now?” 

“Not necessarily at this moment,” said Castiel with an almost clinical detachment, like a patient describing symptoms to a doctor. “My grace has been partially restored, and I am not as close to human as I was before. But the… longing for it remains.” 

“Usually it just happens. The right mood and stuff…” said Dean. He hadn’t though Castiel would go that far that fast. The angel might have “longing” for sex but that didn’t mean really wanted what he was thinking of. Then again, when Cas had been tickling his ribs enough to make his lungs burst and face hurt from grinning, there had been that almost kiss. 

“Tell you what, if you still want to try sex when you get back into the real world, I’ll take you up on it.” 

Castiel nodded, face solemn. “I can be patient.” 

“Good.” 

Now that the idea was planted, Dean could think of nothing else. After so long taking his pleasure in his own hands, he wondered if he could be as patient as Cas.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam and Dean decided the best place to try Gabriel’s mystery bottle was at Bobby’s. Specifically, his panic room. 

“I know I ain’t gonna use it anytime soon,” said Bobby. “But for the love of God, leave it in one piece.” 

“We’ll try,” said Dean, handing over a six pack and the Kinder Egg. 

The basement hadn’t changed since the last time they saw it. A little more dust than usual, but that was to be expected. The desk and locker were still out laid out in the hall since Sam’s detox. Dean walked in, breathing in the scent of Old Spice and iron. The pentagram vent fan left a spinning shadow at his feet. 

And of course, Bo Derek smiling from her poster taped to the wall. 

“You sure you don’t want me in there with you?” asked Sam, holding the door open until he got the final word. 

Dean shook his head. As much as Sam wanted to be helpful, Dean could see the dark memory in his brother’s eyes. It hadn’t been so long ago that Sam had been stuck in that same room, screaming at phantoms as the demon blood burned out of his system. He didn’t need to be reminded of that. 

“I’m sure, Sammy.” Dean lifted the corked bottle, eyeing the small things floating inside. “Besides, if this stuff turns me into a clown, you really want to be stuck in here with me?” 

Sam shuddered. “Not funny.” He closed the door, the iron banging into place, and turned the dial. Once that was secure, he settled on the floor with his back to the door. “I’m not used to being on this side.” 

“Yeah,” said Dean. “I hear ya.” 

“Have you thought about where exactly Cas is going to come out?” 

Dean gulped. He hadn‘t gotten that far in thinking about the process. “Sam, stop talking.” 

Sam winced. “Sorry.” 

Dean settled down on the cot in the middle of the room and uncorked the bottle. Salt and vinegar fumes hit his nose, heavy and old like soy sauce. “Last chance, Cas.” 

The angel dragged his wings up Dean’s sides, a slow lick of warmth, his final goodbye to their lake. That was a yes. 

This was what they wanted, Cas out to do his angel thing and Dean free to hunt. So why did Dean feel disappointed? 

Dean took a breath, the bottle opening cold on his lips, and then tilted his head back and drank. Salt flooded down his throat with a chemical sear, heavy and cold. It took effort to keep swallowing. Once the bottle was empty, he gagged and shuddered. He mouth felt like he had sucked on a sweaty sock, and his throat felt like it was shriveling like a slug that touched salt. Bits of leaves, at least he thought they were leaves, were stuck between his teeth. God he hoped they were leaves. They tasted like petrified toe jam. 

The fumes hit Dean’s nose again, making him cough.. “Uck! Damn that is _nasty_.” 

“Any change?” asked Sam through the door. 

Holding his breath, Dean felt for any tremor or rip inside. Nothing. Castiel remained still. “Aside from a major case of halitosis, not yet.” 

Dean laid back on the cot, hands folded over his middle, and waited. Sam’s question still lingered in his mind. 

Where _would_ Cas come out? Would he vomit him up? The drink had been nasty enough to induce vomiting by smell alone. Some sort of angelic ipecac? 

Or would he come out… elsewhere? 

Oh hell he did _not_ need to think about that. 

Pushing the thought from his mind, Dean waited, focusing on the poster of Bo. 

And waited. 

Ten minutes passed and Dean picked up the bottle, double checking the hanging label for instructions other than “drink me”. There were none. 

“I’m starting to think I got gypped, man.” 

Castiel fluttered in agreement. 

“Still nothing?” asked Sam. 

“Nada.” 

The door to the basement stairs opened up, Bobby at the top. “Sam, if you’re not busy I could use an extra hand with the books.” 

“Okay,” yelled Sam up the stairs. He turned back to the iron door. “Anything you want me to get you?” 

“Water to wash this taste out of my mouth.” 

Sam nodded, getting to his feet and dusting off his jeans. “Okay, be back in a sec. Holler if you need anything.”

\---

The tiny blackened flakes from the drink swirled around in Dean’s stomach, floating from side to side until their very presence pierced through the veil between physical body and spiritual manifestation like moisture seeping through cheesecloth. 

It was night at the lake, the grace stars tinting the water with silver and black. Castiel, pacing the dock, lifted his head as he felt a swarm come through the membrane. The black flakes changed to gold, leaving glowing trails. Squinting at a passing fragment, Castiel followed it’s movements as one would a honeybee. It fluttered for a moment, moved by the ruffling of his feathers and then floated over the lake. 

Castiel jumped in and waded after it, the trench coat splayed on the surface. The water came up to his chest and he had to use his wings as oars to keep up with the flake. 

The flakes floated in the air as dust motes, free and weightless until they struck the bone pillars and melted into the grooves made in the ribs like gold flake rubbed into a scrimshaw. 

Feather ash, Castiel realized. Meant to heal and mend rifts, but not permanently. 

Little by little, the sigils that kept Castiel prisoner were filled in and the membrane wore away. 

\---

Sam handed the bottle of water through the slot in the door. 

“Anything?” he asked. 

Dean shook his head as he took a gulp of water. “If something happens, trust me, I’ll yell. If this isn’t done by midnight we’ll call it a day.” 

Sam retreated back up the stairs again to help Bobby with the phones. Dean didn’t blame him, he hated the waiting game too. 

Dean paced the five corners of the pentagram the same way priests followed labyrinths, concentrating on the light flutter inside, as if his will could get Castiel out. Twenty minutes in, Dean rubbed at his face, eyelids drooping. He felt heavy, the flutters turning into thumps. He collapsed back on the cot, the rusty springs creaking as he laid down on his back. 

He should have snuck in Sam’s laptop to figure out what he needed to make that Geiger counter. Or maybe the EMF reader for an upgrade. Something to keep himself occupied as he waited this out. 

\---

Castiel took another step towards the ribs, the water lowering to his waist. Then his thighs. He paused in alarm as the water dropped away from him. Did the wearing away of the membrane cause another leak? 

Then a push bent his wings forward. A second membrane, like a bubble within a bubble, was growing in the middle of the lake, pushing him and the water outwards. The thinned membrane around the ribs stretched as he was pressed against the bone pillars. His wings smacked against the force. 

“Too fast!” 

\---

The weight in his chest surged up, ribs creaking like driftwood against the tide. It didn’t hurt, but was uncomfortable enough to make Dean squirm. He closed his eyes, exhaling hard to dislodge the feeling. 

“Okay, this might be something,” he muttered. Either the stuff from the bottle was working, or he was about to become an Aliens reenactment. 

He had gone through worse in hell. Being hollowed out had been a regular occurrence, stripped bit by bit of what made him human. Now, he was just giving back something that filled the space left behind. Something borrowed. 

Dean forced his eyes to open, and then his jaw dropped. Rising up to the edges of the room were two massive shadows of wings, both sprouting from the center of his chest. Light leaked from his sternum, silvery and pure. 

Celestial _Aliens_ reenactment. Shit. 

“Sa-!” The breath was squeezed from Dean’s chest as something pushed again, cutting off his cry. He couldn’t call Sam when he needed him. Dammit. Maybe he could throw something to get his attention. 

The wings thrashed, causing something inside to pull. 

Dean squeezed his eyes shut again as the pressure came back, the light flaring. He gripped the sides of the cot, knuckles going white. The pressure seemed to split his chest open wide, spreading his ribs in a butterfly cut until all his breath was gone. But there was no pain. 

Then the pressure was gone. He could breathe. Dean opened his eyes. 

Cas, knelt over him, whole and breathless; bracing his body in an arc with shaking arms. The wings were gone, but his trench coat spread over Dean’s legs like a warm comforter. 

Dean smiled. “Hey.” 

Cas smiled in return, relieved. “Hello, Dean.” Castiel dipped to the side, like an ice cream dripping in the sun. Dean caught him.

“Whoa, easy!” Dean slowly got up and maneuvered the angel to sit on the cot. He sat next to him. “You look like you’re about to pass out.” 

Castiel shook his head, slowly lowering his torso so his head was between his knees. The same position he had taken when first learning how to vomit. Dean rubbed his back in small circles and Castiel leaned into the touch. 

“It will take a while to orient myself back to a plain of existence that isn’t limited to your ribcage.” 

“Right.” Dean sighed, back slouching. “You’d figure I’d be the one needing a breather after having an angel pulled outta me.” 

And, aside from the giant wings that popped out of his chest, anticlimactic. Castiel was now free and they could go back to their regularly scheduled programming. 

But there was nothing regular about the weight beside him. Dean smelled ozone and warm breezes, making him feel at peace. He had been hollowed out, but something lingered. 

Warmth. He could get used to that. 

Castiel sat back up leaned against Dean’s shoulder, nuzzling his head into Dean’s neck. His hair tickling the hunter’s cheek, breath hot and seeping under his collar. Dean’s heart beat faster, breath deeper, a heat trickling slowly into his belly. Did Cas still want this? 

Dean’s hand swung lower to hold Cas around his waist. But when Castiel put his own hand over Dean’s, he twitched away, doubt prickling him. 

Cas couldn’t want this now. Not so soon after…

“Dean…” Castiel sat up, blue eyes chiding and serious. He caught the hunter’s hand and put it back on his hip. “Have you reconsidered?” 

“No!” said Dean. “I still want to do this. But you just got out and now you want to make out?” 

“Yes.” 

“Aren’t you still--” 

The angel tilted Dean’s head down and kissed him. Dean had no idea where Castiel had learned how to kiss, but he did a thorough job of it. He was gentle, licking at the seam of Dean’s mouth to get him to open up, and once he did taking his sweet time mapping the hunter’s mouth. Dean felt as if the air had thickened to molasses, suspending him in sweetness. 

Patient. Like he promised. 

Slow. 

This could take all night. 

Dean’s hands quickly slipped under Castiel’s jacket and shirt, finding skin and burrowing closer. He didn’t do patient. He didn’t want all night, he wanted now. Men dying of thirst didn’t walk leisurely to an oasis. They ran and then drank until they were full to bursting. He intended to do the same. 

Blame it on the dry spell for the last couple of months, blame it on the running tension between him and the angel, but he couldn’t get enough of Castiel’s skin. He tossed away the blue tie and peeled open Cas’ collar, lips sucking on the exposed throat and kissing every inch that revealed itself with every button undone. He tasted the tinge of burnt wood and salt. 

And the low sound Castiel made when Dean sucked a mark on his shoulder was like thunder. Score one for him. 

Castiel carded his fingers through Dean’s hair and pulled his head up to kiss him again. Whatever tiredness the angel felt after being pulled out of Dean was gone, replaced with heat. 

Dean’s voice broke in a plea. “Don’t slow down.” 

Cas broke the kiss only to help Dean take off his shirt and unbutton the top his jeans. His palm danced over his belt and moved lower, tracing the lines of Dean’s hips and the juncture between body and thigh. Dean groaned as fire sparked in his veins. He wanted more. 

Dean touched back, hands slipping behind and digging his fingers in long rows across the space between Castiel’s shoulder blades. In his mind’s eye, he could see where the wings would be, how his fingers would slot in between the soot thick feathers. 

Castiel gasped, his body going ridged. Shit, had Dean done something wrong? Gone to fast? 

“Hey,” asked Dean, drawing back. “You okay…” 

The words died on his lips. Gone was the stoic blue eyed stare; Castiel looked hungry and desperate, attacking Dean’s neck with his sucking mouth. There would be marks in the morning. 

_Note to self: touch Cas’ back often._

Dean fell back onto the thin cot mattress, opening his legs and drawing Cas down, skin against skin. With Dean’s chest exposed Castiel gave as good as he got, mouthing over Dean’s throat, peppering licks down to his navel, and then laying a burning kiss over his heart. 

For a moment Dean thought he could see wings arc above him, blotting out the salt lined walls. A falcon hanging in the sky ready to swoop down towards it’s prey. His denim-clad legs came up and pulled Castiel tighter, trying to get more friction, more skin, more of his mouth, more of that heated anticipation in his belly, more everything. He couldn’t get it fast enough. 

Dean hissed in frustration. “All this time trying to get you outta me, and now I just wanna pull you back in.” 

Castiel looked puzzled for a moment, hand caressing the skin above Dean's heart. Then he leaned back in, voice a rasp. "I'm not sure how you want me to do that." 

Oh. Dean grinned. He had a few ideas. 

\---

Sam wiped the dust off a tome and put it back on the bookshelf when Sheriff Mills came by. Jody had brought a sack of potatoes and the fixings for cheesy potato bacon casserole. A bag of frozen Brussels sprouts lay on the counter, to be snuck into the casserole so the men could get their share of leafy greens, even if it had to be smothered in bacon and cheese. 

Bobby was still on the phone with a hunter, so she had pulled Sam into the kitchen with her. 

“I ain’t doing all this myself.” She handed a peeler to Sam and motioned to the potatoes. “Get cracking.” 

“How many you need?“ 

“All of them. Don’t suppose Dean could help.” 

“He’s resting. Been a long couple of days on the road.” Sam picked up the first spud and sighed. Dean didn’t need him, and as long as he didn’t hear anything, he was content to peel potatoes until the papery thin skins attached themselves to his shoes. His hands had a grey layer of dirt on them by the time all the potatoes lay bare in a bowl by the cutting board. 

Jody fried up the bacon, the warm salty smell soaking through the air. Hopefully Dean and Castiel would be fine before dinner was served and could join them. It would be interesting to see Jody introduced to the angel. Sam snagged a piece of bacon, still covered in a bubbly froth of fat as it drained on a paper towel. Jody stopped him from grabbing a second one with a question. 

“What’s that noise?” 

Bobby looked over from the phones where another hunter was squawking over the line. “Noise?” 

For a second the whole kitchen was silent except for the fatty spark and pop on the stove. Sam froze, then sprinted for the basement, feet barely touching the stairs. 

“Dean!” 

The noise, a rhythmic, rusty screech, came from the safe room. He could hear Dean’s breathy grunt in the same rhythm, as if in pain. 

Sam’s hand touched the lock, about to spin it open, when an even lower voice join Dean’s, moaning in time. 

“Yes…” 

Then the sounds clicked in Sam’s head. 

One of the smartest things Sam ever did was walk away from the safe room.


	9. Chapter 9

One Week Later:

Castiel pulled his hand back from the sleeping woman. The scar tissue lining her left eye was still red, but the tension in her face had smoothed out. At peace at last. Cas couldn’t heal, but he could help people rest. 

Allison Reed had been plagued with insomnia after Zachariah’s attack. Her exhaustion made it hard for her to care for her equally traumatized son. Rufus had done what he could for those hurt during the angel’s wrath, but hunters could only do so much. He had said as much when he had called Bobby. The message soon made it’s way through the Winchesters to him. 

So Castiel had taken it upon himself to help Zachariah’s victims. He had not caused their pain, but he felt responsible for it. 

With the house quiet, Castiel flew to the street and strode down the sidewalk. All was quiet. 

Until his phone beeped a short guitar riff. 

His almost nightly text from Dean. An address. He flew. 

Castiel landed in the parking lot of the motel, scanning around for anything amiss before joining the Winchesters. An argument between two men in a rust lined truck caught his attention. Probably another drunken squabble. 

“You ain’t pussing out on me now!” 

“Walt, if the other hunters hear about this-” 

Walt, a familiar name…

“Half the hunters we know want to do worse to the Winchesters than death.” 

That got Castiel’s attention. Remaining unseen, he walked closer to the truck, taking a better look at the men inside. A rosary hung from the rear view mirror with a hex bag that reeked of smoke. He could smell the dry bite of salt from the truck bed. Hunters. The men had rifles by them on the seat, loaded. One man had a few days worth of scruff on his face, his heavy brow pensive as the other man, clean shaven and spitting anger, spoke. 

“We’re doing them a service,” continued Walt. “How many of our friends got fried because a bunch of demons wanted Sam? How many more are gonna die because of Singer’s soft heart? Sending that boy to heaven is the kindest thing we can do for him.” 

“And what about Dean?” said Roy. 

“You really want Dean Winchester on your ass for the rest of your life?” 

That was enough. Castiel flicked his finger and the locks on the truck froze. Walt fluttered the latch, jamming his shoulder against the door. Roy simply looked scared. Good. 

“The hell-?” 

Castiel walked over to the front of the truck and put his hand on the hood. “Why do they always assume it’s something from hell?” 

The two men eyed him like children frightened of a black cat crossing their path. Roy pulled up his gun to shoot through the windshield. 

“Back away, freak.” 

Castiel squinted at the man. He moved the truck and it’s occupants before the bullet cracked the glass. 

\---

Dean had texted Cas after a Wendigo hunt. State, city, hotel, room number. Cas had his god hunt, but now he checked in at least once a day. It had become routine. Lucifer was still after Sam, hunters still gave the boys the stink eye, but there were still monsters out there that needed hunting. Never deny a Winchester a chance to do the family business.

The boys soothed their wounds over a meal of Chinese food and beer. Lots of beer. Never deny a Winchester a chance to do a family pastime. Sam had grabbed a couple of fruits at a grocery store on the way back, trying to keep some healthy options, but they lay untouched on the bed. 

Both Sam and Dean had been singed during the hunt, the flamethrower biting back at one point. Dean stripped off his over-shirt, the green plaid burned through in places. Damn. 

“Is Cas coming?” asked Sam, trading his chopsticks for a fork. 

“I texted him a few minutes ago,” said Dean, checking his phone again. “If he comes he’ll be here soon.” 

“You look a little antsy,” Sam lifted an eyebrow, a smug smile on his face. “Should I get a second room? And earplugs?” 

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Dean grinned at Sam’s relief. He might not be planning on it, but he was open to suggestions. The night was young. 

When he and Cas had finally ascended from Bobby’s basement, the first person he saw had been Sam with a beet red blush on his face. Apparently he and Castiel had gotten a little vocal in the panic room. Despite the initial embarrassment, Sam had adjusted to Dean’s new relationship with Cas well. Almost as if the taller brother had expected it. 

Traitor. 

Sam had still given the angel a welcoming clap on the shoulder. Bobby, had grumbled about having to change the sheets, but was still relieved to have the angel back. 

The introductions between Jody and Castiel consisted of Jody shoving a casserole laden spoon in his face and saying “taste this”. 

Castiel had commented that he had liked the Brussels sprouts. Weirdo. But it had made Jody happy and they had gotten along just fine after that. 

Dean checked his phone again. What was taking him so long? Was he being chased again? Balthzar giving him trouble? If so he’d kick that soddy English feather duster in the ass. 

Ten minutes later, Castiel landed to the heralding sound of snapping wings.

“Hey, ‘bout time!” said Dean, raising his beer to Cas. “Come join the griping.” 

“Griping?” asked Castiel. 

“Sam’s getting edgy,” replied Dean around a mouthful of orange chicken. “And probably for good reason.” 

“We haven’t heard anything about Walt and Roy for the last few days,” said Sam. He tossed the takeout bag into the trash one handed and went back to his broccoli and beef. “Don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.” 

“They are no longer a matter to worry about,” said Castiel, sitting on Dean’s bed. An orange rolled towards him and he picked it up, rolling it around in his palms, testing the skin and smelling the citrus. 

“Why?” asked Dean. 

“I saw their truck outside with them in it,” said Castiel. Sam and Dean went tense, but the angel went on, as if mentioning the weather. “I sealed the doors and moved to truck to Mumbai.” 

Dean and Sam’s eyes widened, holding back smiles. “You…” 

“With it being monsoon season in India, I figured it would take them longer to come back.” Castiel shrugged. “I may have frustrations that I took out on them.” 

Sam and Dean broke out in laughter, the sound ringing like bells against the beaver themed wallpaper.

\--- 

While they ate, the brothers talked about the sigil’s still carved on Dean’s chest. According to Castiel the cage was inactive, but still capable of containing an angel. Why Gabriel had though the Winchesters could do with the cage, no one knew. What good was a cage when you had to use a massive amount of mojo to get and angel in it in the first place? Holy oil was a better idea. 

One idea was to copy the sigils and make a literal cage to trap Lucifer. Castiel did not think highly of the idea; sigils would not last long against an archangel. 

Dean finished off his second beer, pleasantly buzzed and fiddling with the belt to Cas’ trench coat. “Cryptic bastard,” he cursed to Gabriel. 

Sam, still on his first beer, gestured to Castiel. “I don’t suppose we could talk to Gabriel again to find out what he wanted us to do with the sigils?” 

“I would put that as a last resort,” said Castiel flatly. “He helped me once, and even then unconventionally. I would not put it past him to make an example of you as he did Dean.” 

“Not sure if I want an angel messing with my insides…” Sam swallowed hard. “What about Balthazar?” 

“Frustrating,” said Castiel. “He has a lead on another angel that might join our cause, but meeting him outside of a burlesque was tedious.” 

That got another laugh. 

Eventually, Sam conked out, Castiel giving a small soothing touch on the forehead to banish any nightmares that might plague the younger Winchester. 

Dean splayed out on the bed. Castiel sat next to him. They couldn’t, wouldn’t, do anything too carnal while in the same room as Sam. For some reason the younger Winchester had given them a list of “please dear God don’t do this in the same room as me” actions. No completely taking off clothes was one; but it didn’t stop their hands from running further north or south. 

Lot of things you could do while still clothed. 

“How was the God hunt?” asked Dean, slotting his fingers through Castiel’s shirt buttons. Obviously Cas hadn’t found him yet. Dean was sure the day Cas found God the whole world would know, but it was a way to start pillow talk. For an angel, at least. They would start with innocent questions and then slowly follow into heated whispers. 

Castiel was a slow learner to pillow talk. 

“At one point I thought I felt His presence.” Castiel hummed as the hand slipped underneath his shirt and slid over his chest. “I was mistaken, but it wasn’t a bad experience.” 

“At least you’re getting well traveled.” Dean pushed the tie aside and mouthed the fabric over Castiel’s left nipple. “Where was it?” 

“A tomato garden in New Jersey,” said Cas, arching into the touch and voice running thin. “The woman it belonged to was very irate that I intruded upon her plants and insisted I pull weeds to make up for it. She then gave me lemonade.” Castiel paused, puzzled. “Dean? What about that story was funny?” 

Dean’s ribs heaved and he pulled Castiel in a tight hug, trying to keep in laughter though it fluttered in him like a living thing. For a moment, it felt like he was squeezing Castiel back inside to tickle at his ribs and heart, full of light and whole.


	10. Every Man a Cage - Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One should be cautious of Kinder Eggs from Tricksters. Especially grouchy hunters.

Half past eleven Bobby got a call on the Hunter line that was, for once, good news. The boys, sharing the phone on speaker between them, filled them in on Castiel’s good deed last night. 

“He parked them in India?” asked Bobby. 

“Yep,” said Sam with a happy lilt. “Unless they find passports and a Marathi phrasebook, Walt and Roy are gonna be stuck there for a while.” 

Bobby’s lips lifted in a rare smile. Not a grin. Haven’t had much to grin about, but a smile was a close second. “That’s good to know. I’ll pass the news on to Sheriff Mills so she can call off the watch.” 

“Oh, she still coming by?” That was Dean, cheeky. 

Bobby grumbled. “Yeah, what of it? She’s been coming by with food for a while, you know that.” 

He could hear Sam smack his older brother, but Dean kept going. 

“Should we call ahead next time to make sure we don’t interrupt anything?” 

“After what you and Cas got up to down in the panic room, I don’t think you should be the one talking, Dean,” said Bobby. “Or might I remind you how loud you can get.” 

That shut Dean up. Sam cleared his throat. 

“So, anything new on the Devil front?” 

“Nada, but I’m still deciphering those extra runes Gabriel tagged onto Dean‘s ribs.” Bobby eyed the pin board behind his desk where an illustration of the sigils on Dean’s ribs hung like an anatomy lesson. “I’ll call ya if I get anything important on the radar.” 

The boys hung up and Bobby kept smiling. It was a small victory for the boys, and two less idiot hunters on his radar, but it was a victory nonetheless. 

Bobby half turned his wheelchair towards the liquor cabinet, a dusty bottle of Drambuie in the back he had reserved for “good times”. There had been very few “good times” lately. If they managed to put the Devil back in the box then the bottle would be empty in a flash. For now he could accept a celebratory sip…

Or he could finally dig into that Kinder Egg the boys had brought back from Canada. The only one left after the Trickster/Archangel Gabriel massacred the rest. He had left it in the fridge to keep from melting, and now it sounded really good. 

Liquor, or chocolate? 

Bobby paused and gave the chair a one eighty towards the fridge. Definitely the Kinder Egg. It was still a bit too early in the day to drink. Not even noon. Hell, maybe all this talk of Heaven and Hell was finally driving him sober. 

He took the Kinder Egg to the desk with him, to much on while he cross referenced and translated. The white and red wrapper came off easily and Bobby’s stained fingers pressed a crack into the egg until he could pry off a chocolate shard. It melted onto his fingertips and on his lips. It wasn’t the best chocolate he’d ever had, but it hit the spot. 

When the yellow capsule holding the toy lay exposed in half a chocolate shell, he let his inner kid take a crack at it. It was probably a dinky piece of plastic that required assembly. All part of the appeal, and taboo, of Kinder Eggs. A little pressure on the tab with his thumb and the capsule popped open…

To a tiny, grey mouse that landed on his lap with a squeak. 

“Shit!” 

Bobby jumped up to his feet, the wheelchair screeching as it skidded into the kitchen. The mouse scurried to the floor, hiding under the desk with pitiful, high pitched squeaks. The chocolate shell lay broken on the wood floor. Bobby cursed again, reaching for something to catch the damn critter. 

The hell was a mouse doing in chocolate! No wonder they didn’t allow them in the United States. The rodent would eat away at his books and leave little crap pellets on the kitchen table. He’d have to get mouse traps. 

Bobby bent over to took under the desk, taking off his hat to possibly use as a net. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear it. He took a step to the left-

He took a step. 

Stepping. 

He was standing. On his own two legs. Standing. 

The adrenaline of having a mouse dropped onto his lap wore off in a rush of astonishment. Bobby could move his legs, he could stand. He lifted one foot, then the other, bending at the waist and pinching himself. This wasn’t a dream, and didn’t feel like a hallucination. 

How? A bad joke from a demon, some angel taking pity on an aging hunter? 

No. The chocolate, he rationalized. It was the only Kinder Egg left after the Trickster had eaten all the others. Gabriel must have done something to it. Rodent in a chocolate egg, it was certainly prankster god material. 

A damn miracle to get him off his ass. 

“Okay, maybe Gabriel isn’t such a jerk after all,” muttered Bobby. He took another hesitant step, ready for the miracle to flit away in a moment of cruelty. But after five minutes of going up and down the stairs, seeing just how dusty his second floor had gotten, he determined the miracle was here to stay. 

His doorbell rang. 

“Bobby,” called Jody. “Could you get the door, my arms are full.” 

Bobby opened the back door. 

“Thanks,” said Jody, hauling in two grocery bags stuffed to the brim with fresh produce. She took two steps inside the kitchen before she noticed the fallen wheelchair, and Bobby not in it. 

She looked him up and down with suspicion, and set down one of the grocery bags on the kitchen table, one hand free for her firearm. 

Then the mouse scuttled over her booted foot and she shrieked, dropping the other paper bag with a crack of broken glass. 

Quarter till noon, Bobby looked at Jody’s shocked face as she hopped onto a kitchen chair, and he grinned. 

This was definitely something to call the boys about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! If you see any mistakes please feel free to point them out to me. 
> 
> If you like my work please check out my tumblr: peachnewt.tumblr.com


End file.
